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50 Cents 


lo. 721 John Heard^ Jr. 

ifctered at the Post-Office at New York, as Second-class Mail Matter, Issued Monthly. Subscription Price per Year, 12 Nos., |7.50. 

H 

' 1 . . 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 

I 

1 

1 

i 

AND OTHER STORIES 


BY 

JOHN HEARD, Jk. 


WITH TWO ILLUSTRATIONS 


: I 





NEW YOKE 

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June, 1892 

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Crouched on the floor at his feet, Masima teas holding the rifle she had just loaded. 

[See p. 206. J 





A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


AND OTHER STORIES 



JOHN HEARD, Je. 


WITH TWO ILLUSTRATIONS 


0 


// 





NEW YORK 
HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 
1893 


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Copyright, 1892, by Harper & Brothers. 


All rights reserved. 



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TO 

MY SON 

WITH THE INJUNCTION TO REMEMBER AND PONDER 

THIS PRECEPT ■ 

** Nihil humanum a me alienum puto** 


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NOTE 


Op the following thirteen stories one only, Miss Sarah's Experiment^ 
has not been published before. The initial story, A Charge for France^ 
originally appeared in Scribner’s Magazine, Sancho Mitarra^ HandUcar 
412, and That Yank from New York were first published in the Century, 
and La JLofave is reprinted from the Cosmopolitan, in which it appeared 
under the title of The Smuggler's Bride. The others are taken from 
the pages of Harper's Weekly. 

I beg the editors of these periodicals to accept my most sincere thanks 
for their courtesy in allowing me to collect in book form these waifs, 
to which they once extended the hospitality of their pages, and which 
they have recommended to the public through the acknowledged prestige 
of their publications. 

The Author 



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CONTENTS 


PAQF, 

A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 3 

JULIUS : A WAITER 39 

HAND-CAR 412, C. P. R. , . 55 

MISS Sarah’s experiment 71 

LA LOUVE 113 

“that yank from new York” 135 

IMPRESSIONS OF THE BOAT-RACE 159 

WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA . . . 169 

SANCHO MITARRA 219 

THE STORY OP TRES PALACIOS 237 

LOUIS NAPOLEON alias JOSHUA POTTS 261 

THE DOCUMENTS IN THE CASE OF THE BRIGANTINE 

“maria divina” 281 

A SPANISH VENDETTA 307 




A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 






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A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 

I 

TAURING his stay in the United States, Maurice de 
Saint Brissac was a great favorite among women ; 
among men he was correspondingly disliked. The 
former believed that the mask represented the man, 
a kind of man they did not often meet among home- 
spun Americans, and to the more romantic he seemed 
to be a grand seigneur of the race Vandyck painted so 
well, and who had stepped down from his frame in 
some national gallery to criticise the progress of the 
world since his day. The latter envied his success, 
and, because of it, resented the superiority evinced in 
many ways by this man who was so different from 
themselves. In a way it soothed their wounded pride 
to call him a prig. But he was better than that. He 
did not believe in the stage business of his time. It 
was antiquated, and often ridiculous. It was insin- 
cere. It was very largely “ pose.” At the same time 
family traditions, the “ honor of the name,” the pres- 
tige of nobility, combined with wealth, demanded this 
sacrifice, against which all the finer instincts of the 
man rebelled. For Saint Brissac was a good man, as 
good men go nowadays, and a good deal of a man. 


4 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


Had he belonged to the family of Smith, Jones, or 
Kobinson, and been compelled to work for his liv- 
ing, he might have achieved even more than were 
enough to satisfy himself, and make him one of the 
few Smiths, Joneses, or Eobinsons whose success has 
proved an incentive to subsequent generations of that 
name. Unfortunately, the was reared as a hot-house 
plant, and he respected the responsibilities of his po- 
sition too highly to sacrifice them to a better sense 
of right and wrong, inherited, at second hand, from 
a New-England grandmother. Indeed, there was in 
his composition just enough of the old Puritan gran- 
ite to leaven the enjoyment which might have fol- 
lowed his apparently easy successes in more than one 
field. 

The life of such men is certainly not an enviable 
one. Their ego counts for naught until they are re- 
leased from the bondage of training, and then it is too 
late for the natural and healthy development of the 
man that might have been. Saint Brissac’s father ad- 
mired the type of which M. de Camors is the literary 
exponent, and, coute que coute, his son should be such . 
2i,jparfait gentilhomme. 

Maurice was nearly twenty-two when the old gen- 
tleman retired from this stage, and the prison -door 
was open. He looked out, and, to his amazement, 
looked out upon a world of men and women — a spe- 
cies to which he would fain belong, yet one whose 
life was incompatible with his training. 

“It is a crime,” he said, to himself; “and I feel 
like a Chinese woman whose feet have been so long 
compressed that she cannot walk. I have been brought 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


5 


up for a world that ceased to exist in ’89. Shall I go 
on ? Can I go back 

In his milieu it was impossible to go back, so he 
drifted along, taking infinite pains to accomplish, in 
the most correct manner, many things which he de- 
spised. It was nineteenth century to be bad, and he 
made people believe he was bad. After his eman- 
cipation he travelled through Europe and learned 
something, viz., that the perfection at which his fa- 
ther aimed, and to which he had endeavored to edu- 
cate his son, was a very second-rate perfection, entire- 
ly out of date, and more often to be condemned than 
praised. One day this conviction became enough of S, 
certainty to warrant immediate action. Several young 
men were writing a collective letter of invitation at 
the club, and there arose some slight discussion as to 
the use of the subjunctive. 

‘‘ I may be wrong, ires cher^'* said his contestant, 
“but Musset’s apology is good enough for me. A 
gentleman should never write French well enough to 
be mistaken for a professional.” 

“Our code of honor is written in French,” retorted 
Saint Brissac. “ Perhaps you think a gentleman has 
the same inherited privilege of ignorance in that field.” 

“ The grammar of honor is written in blood, not in 
ink. Heraldry, sir, is a fine science,” replied his op- 
ponent. 

“ Then, if it meet your pleasure,” Saint Brissac an- 
swered, bowing low, “we will compare arms on a field 
under a bend azur?"^ 

“ What nonsense, what nonsense !” he said to him- 
self, as he left the club. “ And to think that for such 


6 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


absolute inanities two human beings must stand against 
one another, sword in hand, and each endeavor, as a 
duty, to cut the other’s throat. Pshaw !” 

The next step was obvious, with the result that Saint 
Brissac, though one of the best swordsmen in Paris, 
blundered to the extent of fatally wounding his adver- 
sary. Publicly he could not afford to be more than 
annoyed at his carelessness ; at bottom, however, he 
was sincerely grieved, and made a vow never again to 
use weapons except in self-defence or in service of his 
country ; and he then resolved to visit America, where 
a discussion about spelling did not necessarily involve 
a funeral. 

At the club, as in society, the decision was received 
with consternation. Maurice made pretty speeches; 
the Figaro repeated them and quoted the admiring 
answers and comments of that exceedingly self-com- 
placent coterie commonly called Tout Paris, an epi- 
thet which, in their ignorance of foreign idioms, they 
fondly believe to mean the whole intellectual world. 
There were farewell dinners, of course ; the most brill- 
iant being that given by the Junior Jockey, where 
Saint Brissac made his last and best speech. To an 
audience of a certain character the occasion was an 
impressive one. The majority of the guests still 
thought of America as their ancestors had thought 
of Louisiana, and to them Saint Brissac was a modern 
La Salle. They toasted him, bespeeched him, cheered 
him, mourned him ; and so prone are we to allow our 
desires the gratification of prettily worded well-wishes 
run amuck, that he was really moved, despite the more 
sane criticism of his reason. He went away early, and 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


1 


one of the guests of the evening, a young American, 
named Joe Sargent, overtook him on the stairs. The 
men knew each other slightly, and sauntered together 
down the Rue de Rivoli. 

“ Ah ! my dear friend,” the Frenchman said, with a 
sigh, “ it is very hard to say good-by without showing 
one’s emotions !” 

There was an amused look in Sargent’s eyes, and for 
a moment he checked himself. Then turning sud- 
denly, as though the temptation were too great to re- 
sist, 

“ 1 should think so,” he answered, smiling. “ But it 
seems impossible to do so without creating the impres- 
sion of being either a damned fool or a humbug — at 
least according to our ideas.” 

Saint Brissac stopped and looked up with a puzzled 
frown into the honest, laughing face, a few inches above 
his own. 

“ Well,” he said, after a pause, and holding out his 
hand, “ it is a new sensation to have the truth told 
one in that way; but I believe you meant it right. 
Indeed, I believe you are right. I am going to your 
country, and it is well I should become accustomed 
to your ways. I suppose,” he continued, interroga- 
tively, “ that I shall often hear the truth as frankly 
expressed ?” 

“ Why,” Sargent replied, laughing, “ if you are going 
to the Rocky Mountains, as you said this evening, you 
will probably hear plenty of plain talk — if that’s what 
you mean. I am on my way there myself for a couple 
of months’ shooting,” he added, after a few reflective 
puffs at his cigar. “Won’t you join our party? I 


8 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


might put you up to a thing or two — and, frankly, I 
think you need it.” 

To all outward appearances two more dissimilar men 
never shook hands, yet this dissimilarity was largely 
one of manner. At bottom they had much in com- 
mon. Both were men ; both were gentlemen ; and 
both believed that whatever a gentleman attempted 
he should carry out well, and without evident effort. 
There was much in the behavior of the one that aston- 
ished the other and delighted his sense of humor. But, 
after all, if the Saxon did occasionally laugh at the 
Latin, and vice versa, they were merely doing as indi- 
viduals what their respective races had done for centu- 
ries, and this did not in any way prevent them from 
becoming close friends as they came to know each 
other better. 


II 

A YEAR later, in July, 1870, Joe Sargent was seated 
before the black, empty fireplace in his New York 
rooms, gloomily pulling at his pipe. The last comic 
papers and a couple of railroad novels littered the floor 
around his chair, and before him a large map of Mexi- 
co, half on his knees, half on the carpet, concealed a 
pile of crumpled papers — chiefly notes written on 
dainty sheets of various tints. It was dusk already, 
and through the open, screened windows the vulgar 
noises of the city came up more softly, in jerks, like 
the last lapping of an ebb-tide ; for the hours of business 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


9 


were over, and the city business of pleasure is dull at 
midsummer. 

In the square below, an Italian organ-grinder was 
massacring “ Santa Lucia ” for the twentieth time, and 
a weary, perfunctory sort of an execution it was. But 
of all this Sargent was oblivious, as he had been of the 
more angry, irritating, noon-day street sounds ; and he 
continued to pull at his brier mechanically, as though 
it were still alight. In his left hand, that hung over 
the arm of the chair, he held a flat. Russia-leather case, 
perhaps a photograph-frame, which he quietly slipped 
into his pocket as his bell rang. 

“ Come in!” he cried out, jumping up and moving a 
few steps towards the door. “ Ah ! Maurice, is it you ? 
I am glad to see you.” 

“ Ce cher Joe !” the other answered, running up and 
embracing him. “ I have only just arrived in town, 
this noon, in fact, and heard at the club that you were 
here. I came at once, as you see, to say honjour first, 
amuse you for half an hour, and bid you good-by — 
probably forever.” 

“ Probably forever ?” 

“Yes; Kapoleon has declared war against Bismarck; 
the news is not known yet, but I have been privately 
advised, and sail by the next steamer. Joe, what I am 
going to say will sound very foolish, even unmanly, to 
you. I know that a great many men come back from 
the war, but not as many as go into it— except perhaps 
on the pension-lists ; and I have a feeling that I shall 
be buried on my first battle-field. Don’t laugh at me 
for the presentiment. Under other circumstances I 
know it would not sound well. But, father and son, for 


10 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


many generations, in fact from Agincourt to Inker- 
marm, every Saint Brissac lias died in the field gen- 
erally in his first engagement, always in his first cam- 
paign.” 

“ Well, that’s a fine record,” his friend interrupted. 
“ Dulce et decorum^ . . .” 

“ To be sure !” the other answered, in his usual 
trenchant way. “It is an eminently correct sentiment, 
and proves that the gay poet was a gentleman as well 
as a philosopher. Give me a cigar, will you, J oe To 
tell you the honest truth, mon he continued, 

after a short pause, and walking slowly from one end 
of the room to the other, “I am more deeply moved 
by the news of this war than I can express to you in 
words. I have lived in Germany, as you know, and 
have looked into their military resources — superficially, 
of course, as an amateur like myself naturally would. 
But I saw enough to make me feel that France is go- 
ing to be overwhelmed by one of the most appalling 
disasters ever recorded in history. It is that convic- 
tion that takes me over there ; for, it goes without say- 
ing, I have no great sympathy with the Bonapartists. 
We owe them nothing. But France will need every 
arm in the Empire, mine among the rest. I tell you, 
Joe, this declaration of war is the most stupendous of 
all the follies that have distinguished this glorious Sec- 
ond Empire. It is Najpoleon le Petit ^ whose glory is a 
little moonshine reflected from the sun of Austerlitz, 
against Bismarck the Great. I wish all Frenchmen 
had studied and remembered the meaning of Sadowa 
as well as I have ! However, Joe,” he continued, re- 
suming his lighter manner, “all this interests you only 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


11 


as an outsider, and it is puerile of me to talk in this 
strain. My place is a horse’s length ahead of my men. 
I will not say good-by now, for you must come and see 
me off — day after to-morrow, at ten in the morning — 
the Provence. An revoir^ then.” 

After his friend’s departure Sargent lighted another 
pipe and sat down to think. Once or twice he glanced 
inquiringly at the little leather case, but without open- 
ing it. When the pipe was smoked out, he rose with 
a jump, swept all his letters into a drawer, threw the 
leather case on top of them all, and turned the key. 
He glanced at the clock. “By Jove!” he exclaimed, 
“after nine. I must get a bite of something.” 

At the club, and while waiting for his dinner, he 
scribbled down memoranda on the back of the bill of 
fare, an occupation which he kept up between courses 
and while smoking his cigar over his coffee. Some one 
looked in at the door and called out to him, 

“Hello, S?irgent! Will you join us to-night?” and 
he made a gesture as though dealing cards. 

“ Come over here a minute, Durand,” he answered. 
“ No, I shall not join you to-night, I have lots to do. 
But I’ll match you for a quarter.” 

The coins spun and Sargent lost. 

“ I thought so 1” he said, aloud, as he stared at the 
silver piece. “Well, Durand, old man, the devil al- 
ways gets his due — one way or another.” He rose, 
slapped him on the shoulder, and laughed bitterly as 
he left the room, while the other said to himself, 

“I never saw Sargent drunk before. Something 
must have gone wrong, surely. I wonder what it 
was.” 


12 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


A few hours later the big steamer swung clear of the 
dock, and Saint Brissac stood at the rail, scanning the 
line of waving handkerchiefs through his single eye- 
glass. Sargent had not appeared, and his friend felt 
deeply disappointed. Joe was his only American friend 
— the only person, in fact, to whom he had confided his 
intention of sailing. In the promiscuous mob of trav- 
ellers he seemed to be the sole one whom nobody had 
come to bid “ God-speed,” and he felt both lonely and 
depressed. 

They were in mid-stream now, headed for the ocean, 
and the Palisades of the Hudson, half-screened by a 
veil of golden mist, receded gradually into the horizon. 
The harbor, alive with screaming tugs and ferry-boats, 
looked its loveliest. The slow quivering of the float- 
ing city, freshly painted^ and gleaming red, white, 
black, and gold, in the wet sunlight, lulled one agree- 
ably into a state of poetic contemplation. But on Saint 
Brissac these soothing influences were lost, and he said 
to himself, bitterly, 

“ G^’est toujours la meme rengaine ! And friendship 
is the same the world over — a matter of convenience 
or opportunity — just as love is a matter of juxtaposi- 
tion. This fellow whom . . .” 

Some one touched him on the shoulder, and he 
turned to look into the pleasant smiling face of the 
man he was reviling. 

‘‘ Joe !” he cried out, joyfully, “ C'*est toi And 
somewhat to the edification of the surrounding groups 
of passengers, he embraced him joyfully. 

“ You were late and got left he asked, as they sat 
down on the wet rail-bench. 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


13 


Sargent shook his head and held out his brawny 
right arm. For France!’’ he said, smiling. 

“ Do you really mean it ?” 

“ Why not, Maurice ? You said France needed every 
arm she could get. Well, here is one. What on earth 
have I got to do in the world 1 A man cannot always 
be hunting, or fishing, or travelling, dining at the club 
and going to the theatre.” 

“ Or into society ?” 

“ Isn’t it much the same thing ?” 

It was so unlike Sargent to make a remark that 
smacked ever so little of bitterness, that Saint Brissac 
looked up quickly, and before his sharp, intelligent 
scrutiny the other turned away with an awkward smile. 
After a moment of silence the Frenchman laid his hand 
on Sargent’s arm, and said, very gently, in a voice that 
expressed his sympathy more perfectly than could any 
words, 

“ An arm for France, . . . Joe? France is some- 
times typified by an eagle, sometimes by a flag, and 
sometimes by a goddess. There is always a woman in 
the case.” 

Sargent made no answer, and neither again alluded 
to the subject. 


Ill 

A FEW weeks later, on the morning of the famous 
6th of August, the two friends were riding side by side 
through the cool, green shade of the Haguenau forest. 


14 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


In their search for General Duhesme they had passed 
around the extreme right of the French army, and 
were continuing their quest in a somewhat aimless way 
through a country already occupied by the enemy. 
Now and then, as they peered into the green depths of 
foliage, they caught the glint of a rifle barrel and a 
glimpse of 2i. franc 'tireur^s blouse. Sometimes the 
color of their amaranth breeches, for they wore undress 
staff uniform, seemed to reassure their would-be slayer, 
and he stepped on to the road to ask what might be the 
news of the day ; and in turn they asked information 
as to their way. Positive advice they never received. 
“ It might be this, it might be that, . . . but again — ” 
and everywhere they were confronted by the fatal ig- 
norance of facts and places, which contributed as much 
as any other cause to the misfortunes culminating at 
Sedan. 

The shadow of impending disaster lay heavy on the 
land, and the nearer they approached the seat of war, 
the darker it grew. 

In Paris all was confusion. A hundred conflicting 
despatches were received daily at the War Department, 
but only the most encouraging were sent out for publi- 
cation. The probability of an invasion had never been 
contemplated, and all the plans of the French were 
drawn up on the basis of a march to Berlin. A de- 
fensive campaign was such an improbability that the 
French had never considered it as a possible contin- 
gency. The classes in Paris knew enough to be anxious, 
but the masses interpreted such news as was doled out 
to them according to their own desires, and studied the 
map of Germany with pathetic ignorance. Many a 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


15 


concierge and his wife invested a few laboriously -saved 
francs in a large map of Prussia, and planted red-headed 
pins where they believed their son ought now to be. 
Wissembourg had not been fought, and in the story of 
the first skirmishes the facts had been colored with 
more than poetical license. The axiom of the day was 
simply that France was invincible. Hence, if a battle 
had been fought, the enemy must have been routed ; 
if not routed, at least defeated ; if not defeated, and 
this interpretation of the news was improbably con- 
servative, the Prussians had been checked. Such a 
neutral result aroused the contempt of the disputatious 
plebs. In the cafes^ in the brasseries^ on extemporized 
platforms, the long down-trampled hydra of repub- 
licanism raised its heads, snarled loudly, angrily, at the 
evident degeneracy of the French army, and predicted 
— nay, clamored for — the fall of the Empire. And 
they builded better than they knew, for the degringo- 
lade was at hand. 

Arriving in the midst of such confusion. Saint Bris- 
sac had experienced no difficulty in securing a pass for 
his friend Sargent’s American weapons and ammuni- 
tion ; still less in obtaining for both a staff appoint- 
ment at large, which would allow them to choose their 
own fighting-ground. This was totally at variance with 
any existing army regulations, but Saint Brissac had 
such infiuential friends that the favors he requested 
were conferred with a celerity that implied a fear of 
non-acceptance on his part. Good men seemed sud- 
denly to have become scarce in France. 

On the eve of their departure from Paris, Saint 
Brissac went up to Sargent’s room and brought him 


16 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


his uniform. Joe looked up from the map he was 
studying, and noticed that his friend was very pale. 

“Any news?” he asked, in his characteristically care- 
less way. 

“Yes; we start at eight in the morning; staff oflB- 
cers. I’ll tell you about it on the way,” Saint Brissac 
answered. Then he added, after a pause, during which 
he nervously paced the room: “The enemy is in 
France. But, Joe, I suppose you cannot understand 
what that means to me.” 

Sargent replied, phlegmatically: “Well, if the ene- 
my is in France, the next thing to do is to drive him 
out.” As he raised his eyes he was struck with the ex- 
pression of anguish on Saint Brissac’s face. “Come, 
Maurice,” he said, rising and laying his hand on his 
friend’s shoulder, “ things always seem worse on the 
day before. When we are out there and get to work, 
you’ll see everything in a different light. Brace up, 
old man ! If it comes to the worst, why, we can con- 
tinue this little trip together, shoulder to shoulder, 
away into the happy hunting-grounds.” 

“ What a blessing you are, Joe,” the other answered, 
suddenly smiling and looking up at the square, rugged 
face of his companion. “ The indifference and care- 
lessness which we learn to assume are perfectly natural 
to you; and what a difference there is between the 
genuine and the imitation article ! I assure you it 
does me more good to listen to you for five minutes 
than to spend an hour at the War Department and 
hear the — I suppose you would call it hurrahing — of 
a lot of men, clever men, too, who are trying to hide 
the truth behind a screen of traditional convention- 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


17 


alities and phrases. Have you ever 3een atiy fighting, 

Joer 

“You would hardly call it fighting, I suppose,” Sar- 
gent answered, laughing. “ I served through a couple 
of Apache campaigns, for the fun of it, and so I do 
know what a bullet sounds like when it passes an inch 
or two away — and that is a trick those Apache bullets 
have. I guess I’ll do well enough, Maurice, because,” 
he continued, with a drop in his voice — “ because as far 

as I am concerned I don’t care a d how it all turns 

out. In a tight corner it helps a man to know that he 
has no family responsibilities; no letters to read over 
at the last minute, and all that sort of thing. Johnny 
Steens, who, by the way, was killed in one of our 
brushes with the Indians, used to say that he should 
prefer to start out as a foundling, with just money 
enough to make a start as a Gil Bias or some such 
picaro. I guess there is something in that. A fellow 
could afford to take big chances then and have lots 
of fun. Well, you say we’re off in the morning, 
eh ? Suppose, then, we quit swapping lies and get 
ready.” 

Their journey from Paris to the front was a horrible 
nightmare to Saint Brissac ; a stern disillusion to Sar- 
gent. For, though he modestly alluded to his cam- 
paigns in Arizona and Sonora as mere hunting trips, 
he had there received such training and such correct 
critical insight as well-organized campaigns often fail 
to give. It was apparent to him that disorder was 
everywhere the order of the day ; confusion and igno- 
rance the watchwords. Saint Brissac bit his mustache 
in despair. Joe smoked grimly; but neither spoke. 

2 


18 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


They understood each other and there was nothing to 
say. 

The morning was well-nigh noon before they found 
the old general, seated under a tree on a knoll over- 
looking a part of the battle-field. In a little hollow 
behind, the Eighth and Ninth Cuirassiers stood dis- 
mounted by their horses, and still farther back two 
squadrons of the Sixth Lancers halted at ease. A mile 
and a half away the picturesque little village of Mors- 
bronn lay across the plain, like a brown lizard, quiver- 
ing in the intense heat. To the left the deep booming 
of the artillery alternated with the sharp, snarling tat- 
too of the musketry. The distant clumps of woods 
were cushioned with rounded clouds of smoke that dis- 
solved slowly, and hung in shreds across the tree-tops. 
Here and there, through the fields of hops, broken 
black lines advanced and patches of red receded. Fifty 
thousand Frenchmen were losing a battle against one 
hundred and eighty thousand Germans. But the fight 
was yet only at its height, and, though the result was 
a foregone conclusion, the defeated were not yet beaten, 
nor the conquerors victorious. 

Just outside of the circle of staff officers Saint Bris- 
sac and Sargent dismounted, threw their reins to an 
orderly, and stepped up to where the general stood. 

‘‘Do you bring orders?” he asked, without taking 
his field-glass from his eyes. 

“No, sir; we come to ‘take them,” Saint Brissac an- 
swered, as he handed a letter to the general. 

“Why, Maurice, is it you?” the old gentleman ex- 
claimed as he wrung the soldier’s hand. “How glad I 
am to see you ! What can I do for you ?” 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


19 


“ My friend, Mr. Sargent and I, general, crave the 
honor of a charge with you.” 

“ Charge the old soldier answered, testily. “ Who 
the devil told you we were going to charge 

“ Excuse me, general. What else were cuirassiers 
made for?” 

“ Quite right, my boy, quite right. It was so up to 
Waterloo; but everything seems to be wrong to-day. 
Later, perhaps, we may have the pleasure of doing our 
duty.” Then calling to his chief staff-officer, he said 
to him, “ These gentlemen will ride with the Eighth.” 

“ In what capacity, general ?” 

“ Privates,” answered Saint Brissac, promptly. 

The general waved his hand in acquiescence and 
said, kindly : “ JVous nous reverrons-peut-etre .^” 

As they were about to move away a couple of bullets 
sang through the trees above them, and their attention 
was drawn to a group of Prussians emerging from 
an apple orchard about six hundred yards away. A 
mounted officer, a few steps ahead of his men, exam- 
ined the French through his glasses and directed the 
fire of the sharpshooters. Somewhat to the contemp- 
tuous astonishment of the French officers, Sargent had 
dropped behind a rock as the first bullet pinged above 
him, and a second later the sharp, stinging report of 
his 45-90 rang out twice. When the smoke had cleared 
they saw a riderless horse galloping away, and before 
the suddenly deserted orchard wall, two dark objects 
lying on the road. Sargent had raised himself on one 
knee and was quietly replacing his two spent car- 
tridges. 

^^Mdtin / Monsieur Sargent,” the general exclaimed. 


20 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


“You do not speak often, but, when you do, your 
words are to the point !” 

Joe laughed as he straightened himself, still cau- 
tiously scanning the woods ahead. “ If those fellows 
had been Apaches, general,” he said, in his frank, fa- 
miliar way, “you would be snug behind that tree- 
trunk, or a dead man in front of it, and I wouldn’t be 
such a fool as to stand out of the shadow of that rock 
for better than half an hour.” 

“ Yoyez vous cela exclaimed one of the officers. 
“ Ces Amiricains sont impaydbles P’ 

“I bet, general,” interrupted Saint Brissac, “you 
thought he was afraid when he dropped like the ace 
of clubs behind that rock. ’Pon my honor, if I hadn’t 
seen him at work after big game I’d have thought so 
myself.” 

Duhesme was looking approvingly at Sargent’s large, 
careless figure. “ I shall never think so again,” he said, 
quietly. “Now, gentlemen, to your posts! Monsieur 
de Satory will look after you. Ah ! Satory ! one mo- 
ment, please,” he added, as they moved away. “ Put 
that young Goliath somewhere near the flag.” 

In the little ravine below, the men were listening 
anxiously to the rumbling of the battle. Half-way 
between them and the group of staff -officers an old 
bugler, erect on his white horse, waited eagerly for 
orders. Now and then a lost shell dropped among the 
compact crowd and created a momentary confusion. 
Then the wounded were carried away, and the dead 
laid against the green bank, face upward, gazing, with 
sightless eyes, at the blue eternity above. On the edge 
of the road a few frightened peasants leaned on their 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


21 


shovels and gaped, open-mouthed, at the magnificent 
soldiers before them. As long as there remained such 
men to fight for her, France — and they — must be safe. 

From time to time a false alarm caused a passing 
flurry in this mass of iron-clad men, as would a breeze 
rippling through a grove of poplars. The troopers 
cursed under their breath, the officers grumbled, and 
then all dropped back again into a semblance of apa- 
thy. But nevertheless the suspense was intolerable, 
and even the steadiest trembled with suppressed ex- 
citement. 

As De Satory, Saint Brissac, and Sargent came tow- 
ards them the soldiers moved nearer to their horses, 
ready to mount, and a couple of officers rode forward 
to meet them. 

“ Well, at last?” they cried out. 

“No, there is nothing!” Satory answered, curtly. 
“ Here, put those dead men underground with each a 
sword-handle for a cross. Take off their armor. These 
gentlemen will charge with the Eighth and need ac- 
coutrements. Get those peasants to work, and send 
Captain Moirac to me at once. Captain,” he contin- 
ued, as that officer rode up, “ I present you Mr. Sar- 
gent, an American, and the Comte de Saint Brissac. 
They will ride next to the color-bearer. The general 
requests that they be properly armed.” 

“ Saint Brissac here !” the captain exclaimed, hold- 
ing out his hand. “I thought you were in America. 
It is delightful to see you again . . . gambling as usu- 
al ; ... it is rouge et noir this deal, preceded by a lit- 
tle jpiquet. . . .” 

“ Parhleu .'” answered Maurice, in the same light- 
hearted tone ; “ we lead hearts !” 


22 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


‘‘ Good ! against the clubs of Prussia and the dia- 
monds of Bavaria.” 

“ But black will take the stake,” broke in De Satorj. 
“ Mark my words, gentlemen, spades will cover hearts 
and diamonds and clubs alike ; spades will be trumps 
this evening,” he repeated, riding away. 

“ Our friend is lugubrious,” cried Saint Brissac, 
laughing, as he watched the other moving off. 

‘‘And no wonder,” remarked a young lieutenant 
who had joined the party ; “ we have not had a decent 
bottle of wine for ten days.” 

Accoutred in dead men’s armor the friends waited 
in the saddle on either side of the stalwart color-bearer. 
The lines were not very straight, and whenever a shell 
dropped among them they swung to and fro, or fronted 
about to make room for the dismal processions of dead 
or wounded that passed between them to the rear. The 
horses fretted and champed their bits ; the men played 
with their swords and cursed at their enforced inactiv- 
ity. All around, the deafening din of the battle swayed 
back and forth, now fainter, now louder, as the breeze 
blew this way or that ; and yet no news, no orders, 
reached them. Then suddenly the firing seemed to 
grow more brisk on the right. 

Saint Brissac leaned forward and listened. “ It will 
be our turn soon,” he said, and, leaning over, he held 
out a black-sealed package to Sargent. “If I don’t 
come back, Joe,” he asked, “will you deliver this in 
person ?” 

Sargent nodded, and put the envelope away. In the 
nervous, excited throng he was the coolest man pres- 
ent. His training in the desert, where, of all places. 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


23 


patience is a virtue, now stood him in good stead. 
While other men jumped on and off their horses, he 
sat so perfectly still and apparently unmoved that the 
veteran color-bearer said to him : 

“You have seen much service, monsieur?” 

“ It is my first battle,” Joe answered, quietly. 

“Well, young man,” the other replied, “my com- 
pliments to you ! You will go far. It seems hardly 
right to intrust the fiag to a foreigner, but, if I fall, 
you take it. There isn’t a man of your size in the 
regiment.” 

Suddenly, shrill and clear, the bugle sounded the 
Garde-d-vous^ and a tremor shook the two regiments. 
The swearing and grumbling ceased, and a dead si- 
lence seemed to fall on the ranks. The men swung 
themselves into the saddle, reined their horses into 
line, and waited. A few officers galloped along the 
front, an order passed down the line, and the mounted 
iron-breasted mass moved forward out of the shadow 
into the sun. As of their own accord the squadrons 
deployed and again waited. A staff-oflicer rode down 
the front and waved his hepi, 

“Boys!” he cried, “the country needs you. You 
are going to charge. Ahead of you are ten thousand 
bayonets, glory, and death. Behind you, our shattered 
right wing. You must save them, cost what it may. 
Good-by, boys! Go it as your fathers did at Water- 
loo!” 

A voice answered from the ranks, “ All right, gen- 
eral ! We haven’t forgotten how the old fellows 
charged.” The next moment the hoarse cry of Vive 
la France! rang from twelve hundred throats. 


24 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


And then again there was a pause. Several horse- 
men wheeled into place in their respective positions. 
A half-intelligible order rippled through the ranks. 
The bugle sounded. The lines oscillated, and instinc- 
tively the squadrons chose their ground. The front 
moved ahead, and the long diagonal shrank into col- 
umn. Then again they halted for a moment, and the 
first bullets, fired from too great a distance to do any 
harm, rang against the steel cuirasses with a dull, 
swinging, melancholy sound. 

Saint Brissac reached over and shook Sargent’s hand 
— and they were off. Twelve hundred swords flashed 
from their scabbards and cast a bar sinister of shadow 
across the golden shield of the burnished cuirasses ; 
and the long horse-tails streamed out behind the star 
of light that sat upon each man’s helmet. 

The ground was very bad — sunken roads between 
high embankments; stone walls, orchards, and hop- 
fields, crowded with sharp-shooters. But more terrible 
than all were the eight batteries of Gunstett, sending 
their irresistible death ploughs through the gallant gal- 
loping mass of cannon-meat. From the right, from 
the left, from the front, sheets of leaden hail swirled 
and whisked and whistled and shrieked at them, sink- 
ing into the quivering flesh with a dull, sodden sound, 
puncturing helmet and cuirass alike to deliver their 
death-message; or, coming aslant, brushing over the 
keen blades, were shattered into angry, fluid fragments 
against the bright armor that gave forth a curiously 
muffled ring. The ranks opened and closed again with 
that ghastly lozenge-shaped motion that means death 
or suffering, a tomb or a wound, for each divergence. 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


25 


And, strange to say, not a human, not a living sound 
was heard. The rumble of the clattering hoofs, the 
sombre drumming accompaniment of the musketry, 
the harsh clang-clanging of the lead pouring in fierce 
gusts on the advancing line of steel, the deep bass roll- 
ing of the heavy guns, drowned all animate sounds. 
No death-cries were heard; the wounded fell dumb; 
no horses neighed ; no riders yelled. Twelve hun- 
dred started ; eleven — ten — eight — six — four hundred 
reached the village. Into it, into it, colors ahead ! like 
a human torrent, the quarters of the horses dancing a 
staccato death-dance cadence like the crested fiow of 
a rushing stream, rising and falling and disappearing ; 
rising and falling again, and falling, as a torrent, smooth- 
ing itself out into a bank of rapids. And at the end of 
the long, crooked street, suddenly, a barricade and a 
human whirlpool ! From above, from every roof and 
window and balcony and shutter the death-hail rattles 
down. And again a lull ; a vision of dismounted men 
tearing away at the dam ; and once more released, the 
stream rushes on with a bound into the great orchard 
beyond. 

In such a race there are no incidents, no personali- 
ties. A man is as a drop of water, a human atom 
whirled along by a rushing current and emptied out 
beyond, dizzy and half-stunned. Four hundred had 
reached the village ; sixty rode out of it. In his left 
hand Saint Brissac grasped the fiag, in his right a brok- 
en sword. Beside him Sargent, whose helmet had been 
shot off, was binding a handkerchief around his fore- 
head. Six cuirassiers, panting and mostly wounded, 
sat on their horses behind them ; and that was all. 


26 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


The main body had diverged to the south and left 
these eight men stranded on a little knoll, a stone’s* 
throw from the road. How they reached it, why they 
remained on it, not one of them understood. 

Sargent looked around and laughed hysterically. 
“I feel as though I had been through the rapids at 
Niagara,” he said. “How long do you suppose that 
business lasted, Maurice! Hullo! where did you get 
that color?” 

“ Pm sure I couldn’t tell you, Joe. Are you hurt ?” 

“Not to speak of. By Jove! here is my flask full 
and unbroken. Here’s luck for you! Let’s have a 
nip all round ; I guess we’ve earned it. There, that’s 
good ; now, what’s the next thing to do ?” 

“ Jffti foi, mon cajpitaine^'* cried out one of the men, 
“ just look around you ! there’s nothing left but to 
die !” 

“Well,” Sargent answered, good-humoredly, “after 
what we have been through, that don’t seem quite as 
easy as it looks. Come ; jump off your horses, boys, 
and unsling your carbines. There are a couple of dead 
fellows in that ditch who’ll fix us out with cartridges. 
Why, Maurice, old man, you look played out ; what’s 
the matter ? There’s plenty of fight in us yet. Cheer 
up, boys ! If we’ve got to die, let us die like good 
men !” 

And here the difference of character of the two men 
showed itself. In the attack the reckless, dashing young 
Frenchman led the way, fearless, undaunted, always in 
the front rank. But now that the battle was lost, and 
the fight had become a purely defensive one — a push- 
ing away of death as it were— his grip was gone, and 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


27 


the solid, staying qualities of the New-Englander came 
out in strong contrast. The men at once recognized 
him as their leader, and, whether by influence of the 
brandy or of his cheeriness, they buckled heartily to 
the task before them. Sargent understood this as well 
as they, and acted accordingly. 

“ Tear the silk off that staff, Maurice, and put it in- 
side your jacket. We must not lose the color. Now, 
boys, look to your arms again ; it is time for those 
pork -eaters to be at us — and here they come, sure 
enough ! Lie low, boys, and aim quietly, each mark 
his man 1” 

A moment later a volley crashed over them. 

“ On to your horses and charge !” Sargent yelled — 
and it seemed that his words had barely died away 
before they were back again — three men. Saint Bris- 
sac, and Sargent. “ My God, Maurice,” the latter said, 
“ I haven’t a cartridge left.” 

“ Nor I,” the other answered, doggedly. The men 
shared with them, and they waited. They were too 
weak to charge again, but stood gallantly at bay. 
Three times the little band repulsed their assailants 
until all their ammunition was exhausted; and again 
they waited. The black uniforms were all around 
them. 

Then some hussars came forward and Sargent rode 
out alone, a bloody handkerchief around his forehead, 
and his long, straight blade before him. The German 
officer advanced and gruffly demanded their surrender. 

“Come and take us!” was the quiet answer; and 
Joe urged his horse onward. The soldier laughed 
and cocked his pistol. “ Another step, my friend, and 


28 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


you are carrion.” But Sargent still moved towards 
him. Sabre and pistol flashed at the same moment; 
and Joe disengaged himself from his fallen horse, the 
hussar dropped out of his saddle on to the grass, and 
the little band cheered, as even desperate men will do 
when they see a brave deed nobly done. Even the 
Germans seemed ashamed to attack again. After a 
few moments of deliberation another officer rode for- 
ward, with a handkerchief on the end of his sword, and 
Sargent met him half-way. 

“ Will you surrender?” he asked, courteously. “ You 
have done all that brave men can do. You know the 
laws of war — we shall have to close in on you, and if 
you do not surrender . . . well, you know what must 

happen as well as I do Think on it a moment, sir. 

You have no ammunition, no chance of escape. You 
are alone in the midst of our army. Surrender is the 
only course open to you.” 

Sargent glanced around, and, to his amazement, he 
saw the four cuirassiers mounted and in line, erect as 
on parade. Three of them held their broken swords, 
presenting arms. A step to the front, his shattered 
right arm limp by his side, with head thrown back and 
chest expanded, the bugler was playing the grand old 
hymn : 

“Mourir pour la patrie, 

C’est le sort le plus beau, 

Le plus digue d’envie. ...” 

And as the notes sprang from the dented instru- 
ment, pathetically broken and husky, the men straight- 
ened themselves in their saddles. “Perfectly insane!” 
Sargent said to himself; “ but it is devilish fine all the 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


29 


same and, turning to the Prussian officer, he added, 
with a wave of« the hand towards the little group he 
commanded : 

‘‘ You see, sir, surrender is out of the question. I 
must go back to them.” The officer raised his cap in 
token of admiration, and Sargent walked slowly back 
to his men. 

For a moment the enemy seemed embarrassed. Had 
they been Anglo-Saxons they would have given those 
five heroes a rousing cheer ; but being merely Saxons, 
the folly of the action outweighed its grandeur. Be- 
fore the generous officer could prevent it, a last volley 
was poured into the little clump of human wreckage 
that had drifted and hung on that fatal knoll. It 
seemed more like an execution than a fight, and for a 
few seconds the assailants held back, waiting for the 
smoke to clear. 

By some miracle Sargent had not been touched. 
Looming up through the mist of smoke they saw his 
giant figure rise from the grass, on to which he had 
flung himself, saw him snap his sword across his knee 
and hurl the fragments at them, watched him bend 
over the body of his dying friend and raise it with 
tender care in his mighty arms, as a mother might 
bear her child, and slowly walk down towards them 
with his burden, their bloody work. 

On either side the ranks parted in solemn silence as 
he passed between them, and so great was the prestige 
that en mantled the solitary survivor, that instinctively 
the officers saluted as he walked down the line to the 
road. There, unconscious of his surroundings, he turned 
towards the village. A large body of staff-officers had 


30 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


gathered on a little eminence near by, whence they had 
watched the last phases of the fight, and as the big cui- 
rassier passed, bearing in his arms the body of his com- 
rade, the commanding general rode forward. 

Without realizing to whom he waa speaking, Sargent 
looked up and asked, in his simple, quiet way, “ Can 
you tell me, sir, where I shall find some water ? I am 
afraid my friend is dying.” 

There was something so gentle, so absolutely oblivi- 
ous of self, in the stalwart young fellow’s manner, that 
the veteran’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. 

“ You poor boy,” he said, kindly, “ he is not dying — 
he is dead.” 

«Dead ?” 

At that moment a burly Rittmeister rushed from 
the ranks and hit Sargent on the shoulder. ‘‘You 
damned French dog of a prisoner,” he said, “ how dare 
you speak to a general. Come off here with your car- 
rion.” 

Kreuz Granaten Donner KeilP^ the old general 
fairly yelled, as he smote the brute across the back 
with the flat of his sword. “Get back to the ranks, 
you hound !” 

Sargent had not even noticed the incident. “ Are 
you sure, sir, that he is dead?” he asked, in a hopeless, 
cruelly quiet voice. 

The other merely nodded, and side by side they went 
down the road a little way, without apparent object, 
while the men made way for them to right and left. 
Presently they passed a group of sappers, and the sight 
of their picks and shovels seemed to rouse Sargent 
from his apathy. He stopped and looked up again. 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


31 


“ May I bury him, sir he asked, in the same dull 
voice. 

The general gave some orders, and a few men fell 
to digging a hole under a gnarled old apple-tree. 
When they were done, Sargent bent forward and laid 
his friend down ; and they covered him in silence. 
After it was over he planted the broken sword above 
his head, and knelt by the rough little mound. He 
was vaguely conscious of the necessity of a prayer, but 
for all his efforts he could think of none but the little 
jingle we have all babbled as children at our mothers’ 
bedside. So, folding his hands, he repeated, slowly, the 
old familiar verses, 

“Now I lay me down to sleep, 

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.” 

Then his voice broke, and he stopped. The white- 
haired old general removed his cap and muttered be- 
tween his teeth, as the other officers present uncovered 
at his example, “ A strong hand, and a tender heart. 
If my Fritz had lived I wish he had grown to be like 
you !” Then there was a long, awkward silence. Sar- 
gent rose and looked around. For the first time since 
the last volley was fired he realized where he was, and 
recognized the rank of the officer beside him. By way 
of apology for the liberties he felt he must have taken, 
he bowed low, then drew himself up. 

“General,” he said, quietly, “where shall I join my 
fellow-prisoners ?” 


32 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


lY 

A FEW months later Sargent arrived in New York. 
The long, dreary period of captivity was over, and once 
more he was a free man ; for although he might have 
availed himself of his commission as staff-officer, and 
been liberated on parole, he preferred to take his full 
punishment alongside of the men with whom, as a pri- 
vate, he had ridden, verily, into the jaws of death. At 
the frontier he opened the sealed package intrusted to 
him by Saint Brissac just before the charge, and his 
heart stood still as he read the address of the enclosed 
letter: “To Miss Edith Thomas.” She was the girl 
he loved, the girl who had rejected him. It was all 
clear to him then ; she had loved Saint Brissac — possi- 
bly they were engaged — and of all men in the world 
he had been chosen for the solemn duty of breaking 
the news of his friend’s death to her. For, of course, 
the official despatches had never mentioned the names 
of the two volunteers. “ Poor girl,” he said to himself, 
and laughed. “ She wrecked my happiness, and now I 
am obliged to do the same to her. It is indeed a bitter 
world.” 

The steamer arrived in the morning, and he called 
in the afternoon. As he walked up Fifth Avenue, 
none of his former friends recognized him, for indeed 
he had grown very brown and gaunt during the long 
months of privation when he worked as a day-laborer 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


33 


in the German prison. Then the broad scar across his 
forehead had changed the frank, boyish expression of 
his face, so that, although many stared at him in an 
undecided sort of way, as he made no sign of recogni- 
tion no one spoke to him. 

Miss Thomas was alone, for he had come early, and 
in the somewhat gloomy, conventional room, furnished 
according to the most expensive New York taste, Sar- 
gent felt ill at ease. It was as though the prison walls 
he had barely left again enclosed him. They shook 
hands rather stiffly, and Joe retreated to the mantel- 
piece; from there he could retreat no further and must 
advance. 

‘‘ And where have you been, pray, during the last 
year, Mr. Sargent?” she asked, with an assumption of 
light-heartedness. 

“ On a serious errand. Miss Thomas,” he answered, 
much embarrassed. “I was in France with M.de Saint 
Brissac during the campaign; and — and afterwards, 
alone ... in Germany, a prisoner. And . . . please 
take this ; ... he gave it to me just before the charge 
where . . . where we were all killed ... I mean — ” 
Then he handed the letter to her, strode to the win- 
dow, and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. 

A few minutes passed in silence before she called to 
him. 

Apparently she had not moved ; he glanced up fur- 
tively at her face and saw that she had been weeping. 

“ Tell me about it,” she said, gently, holding the let- 
ter in her clasped hands. And the poor boy did. He 
told how Saint Brissac had left at once for France on 
receipt of the bad news ; of his energy in Paris ; of his 
3 


34 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


suffering at the disaster which he felt must overwhelm 
his country ; of his valiant charge, always in the front 
rank ; of his gay and gallant behavior throughout ; of 
his brave death ; of his poetically simple funeral before 
the enemy’s host. He glorified his friend, and in doing 
so before the woman he believed that friend had loved, 
he grew enthusiastic and eloquent. While he talked 
he did not dare look up at her, but he heard her sob- 
bing softly, and his heart yearned with sympathy for 
her and bled with grief for his brilliant friend — for he 
remembered now — ah, so distinctly ! that last glimpse 
of him, erect and undaunted in the face of death. 

But when he had finished a horrible feeling of noth- 
ingness came over him. His last duty was done, and 
life seemed to him like a deserted race-course. 

“ Well,” he said, rising after a pause, “I think I must 
go,” and he looked up. 

The girl had also risen from her chair and was hold- 
ing Maurice’s letter towards him. 

“ Am I to read it ?” he asked. “ Thank you.” 

It was short, but characteristic, and ran thus : 

“Mademoiselle, — I regret that our very slight and formal ac- 
quaintance compels me to apologize for the liberty of addressing 
you. Nor would I dare, mademoiselle, to do so were it not for 
the knowledge that if this letter reaches your hands I shall no 
longer be of this world. I intrust it to one of the bravest, the 
noblest, the most unselfish, the most loving of men — my friend, 
Joe Sargent. Ah, mademoiselle, can I say more? May your noble 
heart teach you to read between the lines of your admiring and 
devoted servant, 

“Charles Maurice, 
“Comte de Saint Brissac.” 

“ Why . . . but what does it all mean ?” Sargent ex- 


A CHARGE FOR FRANCE 


35 


claimed, as he looked up from the paper at the grace- 
ful girl before him. “ I thought he . . . you. . . 

“ Ah, Joe !” she interrupted, blushing bewitchingly, 
and smiling at him through her tears. “Joe, can’t you 
read between the lines ?” 







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JULIUS: A WAITER 



RE day had proved unproductive ; although I knew 


^ what I wished to say, and even, in a vague way, 
how I wished to say it, the appropriate words did not 
suggest themselves. My books likewise failed to give 
me any help ; and finally, wearied by my sterile efforts, 
I took my hat and went out. On the Common I met 

my friend P , the writer, and we walked along 

together to the end of the board walk; he had just 
finished Tolstoi’s “ La Mort,” which I had also read, 
and wished to talk it over with some one ; so he pro- 
posed that I should accompany him to the club of 
which he was a member, and where we could enjoy a 
simple dinner and a quiet talk. 

“Rot the least important thing that we learn from 

his books,” P began, as we went into the smoking- 

room, and continuing his discourse on Tolstoi, “ is that 
the apparently most commonplace incidents of real 
life may, and often do, possess considerable human — I 
might even say dramatic — interest. Unfortunately, we 
do not know Ti(yw to look at things. We see a man’s 
head, his hands, and feet ; note the color of his eyes, 
and form an impression that he is commonplace and 
uninteresting ; we describe him on paper by these char- 
acteristics, and produce a commonplace, uninteresting 
figure, which you of the romantic school declare to be 


40 


JULIUS: A WAITER 


— and often rightly — a mere photograph, and an unin- 
teresting one at that. If your objection is well-founded, 
it means merely that we lack talent, not that our prin- 
ciple is wrong. ‘ Nihil humanum a me alienum puto.’ 
But this semi-barbarian examines his subjects more pa- 
tiently, more lovingly. He does not go out of his way 
to invent something or somebody which he knows he 
will never see in this world, and consequently how 
truly human are his men and women ! and how well 
we know them when we lay down the book ! I have 
to thank him for teaching me to discover much of real 
interest where I believed that I knew the ground well 
and that it was barren. And apropos of this, let me 
read you a few notes which I have here, and mean to 
work into my next book. You are sure it will not 
bore you V’ 

I, of course, answered that that was impossible, and 
P read me the following fragment : 

“His name was Julius, simply. To the postman 
and at the registrar’s office he may possibly have been 
known by some more individual name, but to the world 
in which he lived he was ‘ J ulius the waiter.’ He was 
a short, heavy man with a large, round head, and an 
honest German face that you remembered when you 
looked at it, and forgot again when his back was turned 
and you could see only the rounded folds of skin show- 
ing through his close-cut hair, or the ragged ends of his 
tawny mustache. He seemed to have been born in the 
shell-jacket, white apron, and broad-soled shoes which 
revealed his social position ; the glasses or dishes which 
he spent his life moving and removing from the tables 
seemed as much a part of his hands as were his square- 


JULIUS: A WAITER 


41 


chipped finger-nails ; and one was again impressed with 
the thoughtful providence of nature that had placed a 
pencil behind his ear. It was as diflicult to imagine 
him without these attributes of his profession as it was 
to think of him in any other than his professional ca- 
pacity. If the question had been asked of any of the 
men whom he served daily whether Julius were a man, 
he would probably have answered, unhesitatingly and 
in a tone of some astonishment, ‘No; he is a waiter.’ 
And yet Julius was as much a man, even if one of a 
different kind, as those on whom he waited. 

“Forty years before, he had gladdened a suffering 
woman’s heart as she lay exhausted, yet happy, in a 
modest countryman’s house in the overcrowded Khine- 
land. His world, which at first had been limited to one 
room, gradually expanded into the house, then into the 
village, and finally into the fields, which he helped his 
father to cultivate. Until the time when the difficulty 
of supporting a family by farming obliged his parents 
to emigrate, his education was the same sound, simple, 
sensible one that all boys receive in the Hhine country. 
He learned to read, write, and put the rules of arithme- 
tic to practical application, and this part of his learning 
he never forgot. Certain rudimentary notions of the 
geography and history of the world in general, and of 
his own Yaterland in particular, he committed to mem- 
ory in a condensed form ; but the greater part of these 
he left in the school-house, where they belonged; so 
that on reaching New York he discovered that if, on 
the one hand, he had much to learn, he had, on the other, 
little to forget ; and in this new country that gave him 
a great advantage over his father. 


42 


JULIUS: A WAITER 


“ His complete ignorance of English naturally lim- 
ited the field of his search for employment, and event- 
ually he found a place as waiter in a small German 
beer-saloon in the Bowery. For a long time, spright- 
ly in the morning and weary at night, he drew beer, 
washed glasses, wiped tables, and listened to the some- 
what unclassical language into which German is apt to 
develop under the infiuence of Bowery grammarians. 
As his boss prospered and the saloon expanded he 
passed through the various stages characterized by the 
anonymous or ‘boy,’ the patronizing ‘ Jule,’ the 
authoritative or expostulating ^ Kellner^ and finally 
the more respectful ‘Julius,’ of the patrons of the 
establishment; and as he grew in importance his work 
increased proportionately, until it did not seem possible 
for one man to attend to it in a day. 

“ During a period of several years the individual in 
Julius gradually receded before the instrument. From 
the moment when, early in the morning, he sanded the 
fioor and cleaned up the gathered dirt of the preceding 
day, to the time when, half-unconscious with sleep, he 
closed for the night, Julius only asserted himself 
through his occupations. Even eating and drinking 
had become a mechanical side-play, as it were, of the 
daily performance. He could not have told when he 
went to sleep, nor when he had been allowed to sleep 
as long as he wished and really needed. His will had 
become subordinated to the requirements of the guests, 
as his thoughts were to the opinions expressed in the 
daily papers, of which, if they contradicted one anoth- 
er, the last read was the best. Excepting in so far as 
the interests of the house were concerned, he accepted 


JULIUS: A WAITER 


43 


the outspoken theories of the consumers, with but just 
sufficient hesitation to insure their repetition in more 
forcible terms; and he learned to gauge the relative 
importance of his patrons according to the duly paid 
quantity of solids and liquids which passed through his 
hands. At monthly recurring dates he left the per- 
petually gas-lighted saloon for an evening, which usual- 
ly developed into a night of attempted intimacy with 
what he called, and believed to be, the world. But 
what with sleep, and the equally soothing influence of 
unrecorded potations, the remembrance of what he had 
seen in the ‘world’ was never very distinct, even on 
the following day; and the engrossing duties of his 
position left him little leisure to string together such 
fragmentary impressions as he might have recalled into 
anything like an appreciable whole. 

“After several years of this existence Julius fell ill, 
as was to be expected, and, having become a factor of 
considerable importance in the economy of the estab- 
lishment, the proprietor took him into his own family, 
and intrusted him to the care of his wife and daughter. 
During the long weeks of his convalescence, Julius, for 
the flrst time since his arrival in America, had leisure 
to realize how lonely and how unselflsh his previous 
life had been. After this protracted period of enforced 
silence nature spoke, and, with the license conceded to 
convalescents, she spoke peremptorily. Julius loved. 
He had of a sudden understood that life without a wife 
was not worth living ; and as there were no serious ob- 
jections to be considered, he soon after married the 
daughter of his employer. 

“ Julius’s convictions were not the outgrowth of any 


44 


JULIUS: A WAITER 


process of intellectual development. He went to sleep 
without any, and awoke the next morning to find the 
question definitely settled in his own mind. Reasons 
he had none to give ; consequently, argument could not 
move him. He knew that he was right, simply because 
he felt that he was right, and to him that seemed suffi- 
cient. The first year of his married life was to him a 
tremendous one. As heretofore, he remained a waiter 
during the day, but at night, when his work was over, 
he became a man ; so there were two J uliuses occupy- 
ing the same earthly tenement, and, like Box and Cox, 
they never interfered with each other. When he be- 
came a father, a third and new Julius came into exist- 
ence, and for a little time these three-part individuals 
were able to live together, if without harmony, at least 
without discord. But this could not last long. One 
morning the father interfered with the waiter, and 
suddenly the trinity of Juliuses collapsed, leaving him 
a very perplexed man. He did not attempt to under- 
stand these crises of sudden evolution, during which 
he moved up with one step, as it were, the whole dis- 
tance which he should have passed over by degrees, but, 
as usual, waited for some simple inspiration. Of the 
internal machinery by which the problems of his life 
were solved he professed to know nothing; so he 
waited patiently and passively. 

One morning he awoke with the conviction that it 
was no longer proper for him to fill the two positions 
of son-in-law and waiter in the same establishment ; and 
an hour later, by the same process of unconscious cere- 
bration, he had reached the conclusion that he must 
leave Hew York and go to Boston. Possibly he felt 


JULIUS: A WAITER 


45 


that to accept employment elsewhere in New York 
would mean merely a repetition of the life which he 
had led so long, and which he now hated, and that 
would have accounted for his desire to leave the 
place ; but he had chosen Boston, where he had neither 
friends nor relatives, as a child might suddenly wish to 
go to Greenland or South Africa, indifferently, merely 
because it was tired of remaining in the house. And 
this was characteristic of the man. 

“ For a few months Julius found temporary employ- 
ment in a modest restaurant patronized by college men 
and such of the mildly Bohemian element in Boston as 
does not belong to any club, and here he discovered 
that he had one ambitious longing. He wished to 
become a club waiter. It so happened that about 
this time a small dining -club was being organized 
among young artists and professional men of modest 
means, and Julius, having applied for the position 
of senior waiter, was made happy at last. Here it 
was that he completed his evolution into Julius the 
waiter, 

“ Here he had an opportunity of seeing and listening 
to a class of men whose very existence he had hitherto 
not suspected. Here, for the first time, he waited on 
gentlemen, and saw them as they are among them- 
selves when no restraining influence of conventional- 
ity is present. He heard good speeches, good music, 
and on certain occasions saw good painting. Hereto- 
fore these things had existed for him only as the head- 
ings of newspaper paragraphs, and his taste, if one may 
use this word to describe the appreciation of an untu- 
tored, unprejudiced nature, had not been vitiated by 


46 


JULIUS: A WAITER 


the poison of such low art as is unfortunately rightly 
believed to appeal to the lower classes. Instinctively, 
Julius liked what was good and simple ; his criticism — 
purely one of feeling — was unconscious, and usually 
remained unexpressed. On the whole, he was abso- 
lutely and perfectly happy. The club became the ob- 
ject of his life, and little by little he came to believe 
that it belonged to him, or at least that he was an es- 
sential element of its existence. All the facts of its 
history fixed themselves in his memory without con- 
scious effort on his part, and remained written there as 
clearly as on the books. He knew the tastes of the in- 
dividual members, and without ever making any mis- 
takes he brought them what they liked, and omitted to 
bring what each disliked ; and this he did half uncon- 
sciously, as naturally as he ate, drank, or breathed. In 
a word, he identified himself with the institution, spoke 
of it in the first person plural, and as long as he was 
within its doors forgot that he had any distinct indi- 
viduality of his own. 

“ The pet alligator and the spotted, pink-nosed cat, 
born and raised in the club kitchen, became as impor- 
tant factors in the life of Julius the waiter as were his 
own children in the life of Julius the man. On crowd- 
ed occasions, when it became necessary to introduce 
other helpers, he became so jealous of these that he 
would only allow them to help indirectly, and as far as 
was possible he prevented their coming into direct con- 
tact with the club members — a privilege which he con- 
sidered exclusively his own, and to maintain which he 
contrived to do the work of three ordinary men. As 
time went on he took upon himself the performance 


JULIUS : A WAITER 


47 


of one duty after another, and attended to everything 
personally, from the cleaning-up in the morning to the 
posting of the account books late at night. He learned 
to understand French and Italian as only a German- 
born waiter does understand these languages; and with- 
out ever being familiar, he put himself on a familiar 
footing with the clubmen, who had come to look upon 
him as a species of member, constituting a class by him- 
self. A few, looking deeper than the rest, had discov- 
ered the man beneath the mask of the waiter, and to 
these he would sometimes relate the vague recollections 
of his former life, really pleased and perhaps some- 
what astonished to be treated for a moment like a man 
instead of as a thing that came forward at the touch 
of a bell, obeyed an order, and went back again into 
the backroom to snatch a little sleep before the next 
call. But, speaking generally, Julius was only a 
waiter. 

“ On certain occasions, however, the mask fell, and 
then Julius again took his place in the human family. 
His eldest boy, of whom he was rightly proud, fell ill, 
and on the same day on which the doctor told him 
that there was but little hope of his recovery he re- 
ceived a letter from Hew York with the news that his 
aged father was dying. Julius did not complain ; his 
sound common-sense told him that he could do nothing 
better than wait and endure ; so he endured, and con- 
tinued waiting, as usual. Only a few of the members 
knew of his trouble, and the majority probably attrib- 
uted the blearedness of his eyes and his broken voice 
to a temporary abuse of the cellar keys which were in- 
trusted to his keeping. As usual, he brought cigars 


48 


JULIUS: A WAITER 


and spirits, wrote out his checks, and attended to his 
table. 

“ On that very day the club was giving a supper to 
some famous foreign actor, and a supper would not be 
possible without the help of Julius. He knew this, 
and did not ask for leave of absence, which, he thought, 
would have been treasonable to his club. During the 
afternoon, one of the three or four members to whom 
he sometimes talked about himself came into the club 
for a few minutes, and Julius followed him into the 
cloak-room to show him a photograph of the sick child. 
His manner as he did this was somewhat embarrassed, 
as if he felt that he ought to apologize for the liberty 
which he was taking ; yet at the same time he could 
not repress a feeling of pride at being the father of 
such a boy. 

“‘He is a nice bright boy, Mr. D he said. 

‘ He’s six years old now, and just as smart ! Oh, he’s 
a splendid little fellow, and the doctor says he’s stood 
it like a little major. We didn’t have time to get no 
more than one of them finished. That’s a nice photo- 
graph, isn’t it, Mr. D V Then he turned quickly 

and went out of the room. 

“During the supper Julius tried hard to remember 
that he was only a waiter ; but, notwithstanding his 
effort, he could not altogether forget the little bed a 
few blocks away where the boy was lying, and in spite 
of himself his eyes betrayed his feelings. When the 
president rose and made a humorous speech, Julius 
laughed with the rest; but sometimes his laugh was 
slightly hysterical, and sounded like a sob — only to 
himself, of course, for no one else was thinking of the 


JULIUS: A WAITER 


49 


boy or of the old man. And a little later, when the 
guest of the evening gave utterance in somewhat sen- 
timental words to his feelings of gratitude at his kind 
reception in America, Julius broke down, and went out 
into the hall. He sat down on the window-sill and 
looked up at the clock opposite. ‘ It must be settled 
now,’ he thought to himself. ‘ The doctor said he 
would know one way or the other to-night. Perhaps 
it’s all right and the little fellow’s coming round.’ Un- 
consciously he smiled and joined his hands, in which 
he held the ends of his napkin. Then he fancied 
that he saw the little thing lying quiet and white on 
the tumbled bedclothes, and tears came into his eyes. 

“‘What are you doing there, Julius?’ the steward 
cried out to him, angrily. ‘ Come in here and attend 
to your work. Come, come, hurry !’ So Julius went 
back to hand cigars and coffee and take orders for 
liqueurs. When the guests went into the reception- 
room upstairs, he followed them with the punch-bowl, 
and stood in the doorway listening to the music and 
singing ; and for a little while he forgot his trouble, 
until the famous actor began to recite a simple, pathetic 
story of country life, and once more Julius was un- 
able to control his feelings. He took off his apron, 
and, without stopping for a hat, ran away home. It 
was not decided yet ; the doctor could not tell until 
to-morrow. So he returned to the deserted club-rooms 
and washed dishes throughout the night in the dimly 
lighted kitchen. 

“ In time the old man died, and the child recovered. 
Julius forgot his sorrow and continued as usual to wait 
on the clubmen, store away facts, and post his books ; 
4 


50 


JULIUS: A WAITER 


and until the day of his death he will probably remain 
at the club as Julius the waiter.” 

“Of course,” P said, gathering his papers and 

clapping his hands for fresh cigars, “ this life is incom- 
plete, but the remainder of it is a foregone conclusion. 
With these premises it cannot be otherwise. You 
see, an honest realistic writer is the slave of his charac- 
ters, for by the time he has written the first half of 
his book they have already dictated the second, and 
he cannot change a page of it.” 

When the waiter had gone out I turned to P , 

who seemed to expect an answer, and said : “ I like 
that fragment of yours very well, but I did not expect 
you to treat it in that way. It seems to me that you 
have done just what you reprove in romantic writing. 
You have taken for your subject an ideal exception- 
al waiter, whom probably neither you nor I will ever 
meet. Look at this very man who has just brought 
us the cigars ; what could you find that was interest- 
ing in him? He seems to me much more typical of 
his class than your Julius.” 

P interrupted me, smiling. “ My dear fellow,” 

he said, “ he is my Julius. What I have read to you is 
merely a sketch of his life — not such as he has told it 
to me, of course, but such as, from the facts he gave 
me, it really must have been. Your patient can only 
tell the doctor crudely what he feels ; it is for the lat- 
ter to see and understand what the symptoms mean, 
and how the malady developed itself. I have known 
Julius for a long time, and I believed that I knew of 
him all that there was to know. It is but a little while 


JULIUS: A WAITER 


51 


ago that I learned to see what had hitherto escaped my 
attention, and 1 firmly believe that in every human 
being’s life there is something to move and interest 
his fellow-men — if you know how to look for it and 
how to interpret it. That, of course, is the problem 
which the writer must solve.” 


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HAND-CAH 412, C. R R 

(on the CANADIAN PACIFIC RAILWAY) 


TpOR the last hoar the construction train had been 
travelling slowly; for a whole hour it had cau- 
tiously stumbled over the loosened fish-plates with a 
monotonous chuggety-chug, chunkety-chunk, that had 
long ceased to awaken any interest, sympathetic or 
otherwise, in our drowsy minds. Finally it stopped 
altogether with a jerk, as if it had suddenly but con- 
clusively realized the vanity of any further effort. 
The astonished cars pulled at their pins and pounded 
their buffers as if in angry expostulation at this freak 
of the locomotive, and some of the men offered ener- 
getic advice to the Deity as to what ultimate course 
to pursue with the management of the road in general 
and the long freight-links in particular. “ Can’t help 
it, can’t help it !” said the brakeman, as he came along 
the top of the box-car ahead. “ The rails have spread, 
and it’ll be two hours, may be three, before we start 
her up again.” 

But the time passed, the train still waited, and we 
began to grumble stoutly, wondering why, in the name 
of various places and things, they chose to dally in such 
a dismal, God-forsaken spot. It was raining at Kat 


56 


HAND-CAR 412, C. P. R. 


Crossing ; in fact, it had been raining slowly, steadi- 
ly, for two days with a certain desperate pertinacity. 
There had been no previous drought to render such an 
abundance of water desirable ; in the country through 
which we passed we had noticed no fields of parched 
wheat, no withering trees, no drooping vegetables, no 
thirsty cattle, no travelled roads on which the dust 
required laying. On the contrary, the lakes were all 
full to overflowing, the rivers swollen, the ravines 
drowned, the swamps soaked, and the tanks so full 
that the relief-pipes poured forth a continuous stream 
of spattering expostulation. 

Notwithstanding this lavish excess of water, the air 
seemed no fresher than before the storm, when the 
thermometer in the caboose registered ninety -seven 
degrees on the shady side of the track. Both front 
and side doors were wide open, and some of the boys, 
in a vain endeavor to produce a passing sensation of 
freshness, sat down in the semi-fluid puddles, covered 
with a film of cinders, and dangled their legs in the 
pour outside. But to no purpose; the air was dead, 
the water warm, and we continued to stifle and growl. 

The view from the car was not interesting. To the 
left, as far as we could see through the endless, unfold- 
ing curtain of rain, a dismal muskeg swamp stretched 
away to the south of the track, broken only by rare 
clumps of ragged tamarack. Both slopes of the bank 
were covered by long beds of pink fire- weed, varied 
with patches of soggy pigeon-grass, and to the north 
lay the desolate waste of hruU through which we had 
been travelling for interminable hours. Here and there 
among the shiny black poles of the burned trees little 


HAND-CAR 412, C. P. R. 


51 


bunches of “ popples ” rustled their loose leaves with a 
nervous activity that seemed out of place in the dead 
quiet of their surroundings ; and their silly, feeble flut- 
tering, like the barking of a frightened cur, was so ex- 
asperating that we could scarcely refrain from throw- 
ing a stone at the shivering things and calling out: 

“ Oh, shut up !” 

The underbrush was thin, and the ridges of pink 
gneiss, banded with black, thrust their bare, smooth 
surfaces through the mottled moss like great pock- 
marked shoulders of giants protruding from their tat- 
tered shirts ; in the gullies between them the water 
gurgled dismally below the tangle of dead trees, and 
ran away under glossy pigeon-berry leaves, on to which 
the grotesque pitcher-plants, opening wide their lids, 
poured their surplus water. Save by the patter of the 
rain on the car-top and the pish-pishing of the engine , 
blowing off steam, the silence was absolute, and ren- 
dered only more profound by the booming crash of a 
falling tree. N^othing moved but the crazy poplar- 
trees, and once more we marvelled at the recklessness 
of the men who had built a railroad through this dead, 
barren wilderness, where there was nothing but rock, 
water, and burned timber. 

Besides our party of engineers, detailed on remeas- 
urement work, there were two strangers in the car: 
they had blank passes from the chief, and were going 
West. As they kept to themselves, talking together 
most of the time and not seeming to care for our com- 
pany, we had paid no especial attention to them. Ev- 
ery man of us, however, turned suddenly as the young- 
er of the two, speaking excitedly in a loud, swaggering 


58 HAND-CAR 412, C. P. R. 

tone, intensified bj a strong twang, said to his compan- 
ion : 

“ I tell you, Morton, that man Matt Murphy was the 
biggest coward that ever walked this earth ; now don’t 
you forget it !” 

The intonation of the man’s voice was so vicious, so 
mean, that we all felt convinced that the statement was 
false, and, although utterly ignorant of the facts, each 
of us felt an instinctive desire to contradict him. But 
before any one could think of what to say, a deep voice 
from the end of the car condensed our feelings in the 
energetic and laconic answer, 

“ That’s a lie !” 

The speaker. Jack Collins, was the quietest man on 
the staff, and had acquired a certain reputation for 
minding nobody’s business but his own. Jack was 
somewhat of an enigma to us all ; we did not under- 
stand, but we all liked him, for he had a way of doing 
small charities and helping the boys in a pinch that 
showed a truly good nature and a warm heart. What 
his exact \vork was none of us knew ; he had the name 
of being a good locator and explorer, especially among 
the older men, with whom he usually associated. His 
reports never passed through our office, and no com- 
plaints were ever made about the irregularity of his 
work ; he always went off before office-hours with his 
compass and note-book, but the men not infrequently 
found him lying in a secluded corner reading, or sleep- 
ing with his book beside him. He was a large, powerful 
fellow, with a heavy beard that concealed half his face, 
of which the only remarkable features were a strong, 
determined mouth and long, slanting black eyes that 


HAND-CAR 412, C. P. R. 


59 


kept moving slowly round from left to right, and sud- 
denly jumped back to their starting-point. Sometimes, 
when we pressed him very hard, he told us a story or 
some adventure which had happened to him, and it was 
only then that his eyes were at rest, void of expression, 
as if he were reading from some far-away book. He 
spoke slowly but well, in a low, even voice that com- 
manded the attention of his hearers ; we never ques- 
tioned the truth of his stories, and whenever any state- 
ment seemed a trifle extravagant we acknowledged that 
it must be our fault if we could not understand the cir- 
cumstances. 

For a moment after his unusually emphatic denial 
no one spoke. The stranger had risen at once, but, see- 
ing that Jack did not move, he sat down again, fllled a 
fresh pipe, and waited. Jack was sitting on the floor 
at the end of the car, looking down pensively at the 
revolver that hung from his belt ; after a short pause 
he looked up at the ceiling, and in his usual slow way 
he told us the story of Matt Murphy^s last work on the 
road. 

It had happened two years before; Murphy was then 
road-master at Campbell’s Point, and, far from being 
thought a coward, he was looked upon as the only man 
on the line who had pluck enough to run a snow-plough 
at the head of five engines into a choked cut, and stand 
firm when every plank fairly quivered under the strain. 
One day, while he was dozing in his office — for Matt was 
lazy when he had nothing to do — the door opened with 
a bang, and the operator, in a state of breathless excite- 
ment, ran into the room. 

“ There’s a bush-fire below the long bridge, Mr. Mur- 


60 


HAND-CAR 412, C. P. R. 


phy,” he called out ; “ the wind is this way, and the 
Pacific Emigrant is due in an hour. What the devil 
shall we do?” 

Matt started in his chair and repeated the man’s 
words in a dazed sort of way. “ Bush-fire — and they 
are due in an hour. My God !” Then he got up, stag- 
gered across the room, and leaned against the wall. The 
baggage-master, who had overheard, stepped in from 
the adjoining ofiice, and the operator, with a shrug of 
his shoulders, turned to him and said, in a perplexed 
way: 

“ Murphy’s drunk, as usual. What’s to be done ?” 

“ Drunk, you blamed idiot !” cried Nolan, indignant- 
ly ; “ his wife and kids are on that train. Get out of 
here, you scented squirrel, and blamed quick, too, or 
I’ll make your empty head so blessed sore you couldn’t 
see daylight through a ladder ! Say, Matt, old man — ” 
He did not finish his sentence, for the next moment 
Murphy pushed him aside and sprang out on the plat- 
form, where the men were collecting to hear the news. 

“ Boys,” he cried, in a voice that seemed to rasp in 
his throat — “ boys, look a-here ! I want three good men 
to go to hell with me ! Haul up a pumper — 112 ! catch 
a hold there ; now heave away — so ! Drop her on the 
track — that’s it ! Slap on the oil, you fellows. Two 
hundred lives ! My God !” he continued, as if thinking 
aloud. “ Quick, blame you ! off with your shirts, and 
hurry ! all aboard ! That’s the style ; now come along, 
boys, and work 

He was the first on the car and took the rear han- 
dle behind the brake ; Long Mike, the Finlander, Jim 
Beeves, and “ Dumb Dick ” jumped on after him ; an 


HAND-CAR 412, C. P. R. 


61 


oil-can, a monkey-wrench, and an axe were thrown on ; 
the men gave them a shove to start, and away they 
went down the long grade, fifteen miles an hour. 

Instinctively — for they merely knew that there was 
a fire below the bridge and that the train was soon 
due — instinctively Murphy’s three companions had 
understood what they had before them. They were 
all old hands and knew that this was a desperate vent- 
ure, a forlorn - hope, and that their only chances of 
success lay in their working well together, each man 
doing his duty absolutely, regardless of what might 
happen. But all this they felt rather than reasoned, 
for men of action reflect slowly, and the pace was so 
severe that they had no time for reflection. 

Matt leaned over and slipped the key of the switch 
to Jim Reeves, who was in front. 

“ If we haven’t time to unlock her, Jim,” he said, 
so quietly that it hurt the men to hear him, “ jump on 
the lever and break the chain. How, fellows, heave 
away for all you’re worth !” 

The first six miles passed quickly ; to right and left 
the road and the trees flew backwards, and nothing 
was heard but the short, quick panting of the men, the 
burr of the cogs, and the clickety-click, clickety-clink 
of the wheels over the fish-plates. On the half-mile 
up-grade to Bass’s Falls they had to slacken up a little 
and hang on the handles, while tlje sweat ran off their 
smooth backs down over their muscular arms to the 
crossbar, and dripped on to the platform; but with 
their heads down and every muscle braced, they worked 
on steadily, panting hoarsely through their closed teeth. 
They had but one idea in common, and that was, as 


62 


HAND-CAR 412, C. P. R. 


Jim Beeves tersely expressed it, that they must reach 
that qualified switch or bust. At regular intervals 
Murphy, who seemed to have renounced his customary 
profanity, repeated his short, earnest exhortation, more 
as a prayer than as a command : “ Steady, boys, steady ! 
for God’s sake !” 

The top of the grade was reached ; then came a level 
run of two miles before the curve to the bridge. Ahead 
of them on each side of the track the workmen, appre- 
hending some disaster from the enormous volume of 
smoke that was blowing towards them in purplish 
clouds, rimmed with golden sunlight, had assembled 
before the Falls station ; and as Murphy’s gang came 
along, up and down, up and down, every man in that 
crowd felt his eyes grow moist and his throat dry. 
With one accord English and Yankee, French-Cana- 
dians and Italians, Swedes and Finlanders, gave one 
solitary ringing cheer, and stood silent again, as if sud- 
denly awed by the simple heroism of these four men, 
apparently rushing consciously, determinedly, to certain 
death, and working fiercely as if they were escaping 
from some great danger instead of hurrying into it. 
Not a man spoke as they flashed past. A few pushed 
their hats back and stopped as if ashamed of the move- 
ment, watching the hand-car grow smaller and smaller 
above the converging lines of the rails. 

Swearing Dan Dunn, the walking boss, stepped out 
into the middle of the track between his men, threw 
down his pick, and wiped his wet forehead on the sleeve 
of his shirt. 

“Boys,” he said, “that gang’s a-goin’ to everlastin’ 
destruction as plucky as any fellows I ever see, every 


HAND-CAR 412, C. P. R. 


63 


blamed man of them ; and Til bet a barrel of high- 
wines to a cup of tea they know it, too. Matt Murphy 
knows it, sure.” Then, turning suddenly and point- 
ing down the track, he cried, in his usual, bullying 
tone : 

“ Give them a yell there, blame you ! — all together 
now, and yell till you bust, or I’ll break the son of 
a tadger’s head that hangs fire !” 

For once, although they had their customary effect 
of insuring prompt compliance with his orders, Dan’s 
threats were superfiuous ; for once his wishes coincided 
with the wishes of his men, and from those five hun- 
dred throats there burst such a cry that the fiames 
ahead seemed to halt for a moment in their forward 
rush. On the hot, pulsating air it fioated away across 
the muskeg, over the heads of the devoted crew, and 
re-echoed with a booming roll from the slate walls of 
the rock cut, through which they had pushed their car. 
But though this expression of their comrades’ sympa- 
thy cheered and helped them, it told each man only 
too plainly that this was his last job on the track. 

“ That’s good-by for the long contract,” said Reeves ; 
and Mike, in his broken English, repeated : 

‘‘Yas! Koot-py, pyes — koot-py!” but both re- 
lapsed into silence at the sound of Murphy’s quiet re- 
monstrance. 

“ Steady, boys, steady ! and mind the brake, Jim ; 
we’re right on the down-grade.” 

At the end of the level was the grade to the bridge 
and the fire ; beyond the fire the bridge, the switch, 
and the fated train with its human cargo hurrying to 
destruction, for the wind was high, and the engineer 


64 


HAND-CAR 412, C. P. R. 


would naturally think the fire far away until he was 
in the very midst of it. Then the struggle began. 
The smoke ran along the embankment towards them 
in great fiying gusts, so dense they could barely see 
the platform of the car ; the heat became intense, but 
they never wavered. Perhaps it was because women 
were few in the dismal country which had become their 
home, and that, as is usual in purely male communi- 
ties, every man invested the gentler sex collectively 
with a romantic halo, in exact inverse proportion to 
the profane sceptical contempt which he professed for 
them individually ; perhaps it was because some lin- 
gering spark of chivalry, driven into the West by the 
sneers of a higher civilization, had fiamed up suddenly 
in the hearts of these rough journeymen ; or perhaps 
it was merely the humane hope of saving the wives 
and children of men who had slept under the same 
blanket, worked in the same ditch, and shared the same 
biscuit ; — but, whatever the cause, it was sufficient to 
silence selfish consideration and make them look upon 
the sacrifice of their lives as no more than the fulfil- 
ment of a necessary duty. 

All around them the trees were falling in rows; 
broad flashes of flame, quenched for a moment in the 
black smoke, burst up and flared in the wind like 
shreds of some vast tattered canopy. Along the ground 
the brush wilted away, burning with a sharp crackle 
like that of a musketry discharge ; and up through 
the hollow tamaracks the fire swept with a noise like 
the bellow of a filling sail. Great trunks tottered and 
fell with a booming crash like the sound of distant 
cannon. The hot air quivered around them, and they 


HAND-CAR 412, C. P. R. 


65 


gasped spasmodically as they shook off the burning 
sparks, and laughed hysterically between short howls 
of pain. Ahead all was red and black, a sea of fire. 
Murphy called out once more, “ Steady, boys, steady 
and they plunged into it resolutely, with the despe- 
ration of a wounded bull charging on the espada’s 
blade. 

“ Steady, my men ! up and down, up and down ! 
Stick to her, lads ; it’ll soon be over now.” 

Then the flames closed upon them, and as they low- 
ered their heads before the whirlwind of fire and 
smoke that was hurled at them, they shivered at the 
crisp crepitation of their hair and beard, and felt the 
hot grip of the fire fasten on them as they writhed in 
pain. Something struck the car and it reeled for a 
moment. 

“ Stand by her, boys ; steady there !” They grasped 
the handles again and struggled on ; by the hollow 
sound of the wheels they knew that they were on the 
bridge at last, and it lent them fresh strength. Then 
something struck them again. “ Hard, hard at work 
there! Jim, Mike, Dick, all of you! — pump away, 
for God’s sake, boys ! we are nearly there. Try again ! 
the switch, boys, mind the switch! all together now, 
heave !” But strain as they might — and they strained 
with a fierce, desperate energy, for there was some- 
thing in Murphy’s tone that went to their hearts — the 
car was fast and would not move. Then they heard a 
wild cry above the thundering crash of the bridge as it 
fell from under them ; the car was suddenly shot ahead 
and sprang away easily over the debris that lay across 
the iron. The trestle was passed ; but at the rear han- 
5 


66 


HAND-CAR 412, C. P. R. 


die Mike stood alone ; his partner, Matt Murphy, was 
gone. That last falling brace had struck him square- 
ly across the arms ; and when he saw that he could no 
longer pull his weight, he jumped off and put all his 
remaining strength in that last push that sent them 
through into the comparative quiet beyond. 

“ Steady, boys, and God be with you !” came once 
more from out the chaos of flames behind them, and 
that was all. On the other side, beyond the clay cut, 
they heard the bellowing whistle of the engine ; a few 
more strokes, and they reached the switch. 

“ Jump, Jim ! for God’s sake, jump quick !” The 
next moment the train swept round the curve over the 
frog and glided smoothly down the siding, where it 
stopped ; but the hand-car had disappeared. 

When they came back they found Jim Keeves’s 
body by the broken lever of the switch ; Long Mike, 
too, they picked up beside him, with a shattered leg 
and an ugly gash across the forehead, while on the 
other side of the track ‘‘ Dumb Dick ” was clutching 
the broken handle of the hand-car and sobbing like a 
child. Strong men lifted their crushed bodies with 
tender care, and side by side they laid them on a bed 
of fragant balsam boughs; a woman’s light hand wiped 
away the blood from Mike’s rough face, and held moist 
linen to his bleeding brow. Soon he opened his eyes 
and looked solemnly, with a puzzled expression, into 
the anxious faces of the women and children that stood 
around him, silently watching for his recovery. Then 
he remembered all ; for a moment a bright smile lit up 
his plain features and died away slowly as he caught 
sight of his companions stretched beside him. Com- 


HAND-CAR 412, C. P. R. 


67 


ing through the distant smoke, the rays of the red 
evening sun touched their pale faces with a ruddy 
glow, and wove a soft golden halo around their pas- 
sive heads. With a slight quiver Long Mike passed 
away in the sunset silence to join his comrades. 

When Jack finished there was a pause ; then we all 
looked up at him with the same question on our lips. 
He rose slowly from the corner in which he had been 
sitting. “You want to know where I heard all this?” 
he asked. “ Oh ! I am ‘ Dumb Dick.’ To be frank 
with you, boys, I have been a special detective on the 
C. P. R. for several years ; and if I tell you so now it is 
because my contract is up as soon as I have handcuffed 
Mr. James Bowles over there. Don’t you move !” he 
called out, covering him with his revolver. “I sup- 
pose,” he continued, addressing the man he had called 
Bowles, “ that it would have been more correct to 
chain you first and tell my story afterwards ; but I 
knew you could not give me the slip. That man, boys, 
was Murphy’s partner in a contract on this road, and 
tried to get him to swindle the company. Matt 
wouldn’t do it, and threatened to show him up ; and 
now that he’s dead this fellow takes his revenge out in 
attacking his character. However, he’s so badly wanted 
at headquarters just now that he will keep his mouth 
shut about Murphy for the next ten years.” 



MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 



MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


“Man goes as God pleases.” 

—Don Quixote. 

I 

"O OBERT THORNTON was jnst going out when 
the concierge, who took care of his little apartment 
in the Rue de Lille, opened the door for the postman 
with the evening mail and the book to sign. 

“It is a writing,” he said, “not easy to decipher; 
but in the Americas you do things otherwise than 
we do in Paris. The letter is for monsieur, is it 
not?” 

The carrier bowed and went out, leaving the con- 
cierge standing, cap in hand, in that familiar, cringing 
attitude of expectancy which, abroad, usually accom- 
panies the delivery of a registered letter. Thornton 
had already torn the envelope and scattered its con- 
tents over the table. There were three small sheets 
in all. The first, a draft on Drexel, Harjes & Co., he 
quickly laid aside after glancing at the figures with 
a feeling of unmiugled pleasure and uneasy astonish- 
ment. The second was merely a note of a few words 
in a woman’s long, slanting hand — a thin, old-fashioned 
writing — and ran as follows: 


12 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


“ Dear ^Robert, —If you will sign the enclosed, I will accept 
the offer you made to me for the first time twenty-five years ago. 
Come at once or I may change my mind. . . . Sarah. 

“P. S. — I send a draft, to dispose of any possible obstacle to 
your leaving Paris.” 

The third sheet he held for a moment in his hand, 
then placed it, still folded, under a large paper-weight. 
He knew too well what it must contain. Years ago he 
would have treated the matter as a joke, and lightly 
torn the paper into little pieces; but to-day the very 
sight of it embarrassed him, for he was compelled to 
admit the effects of that peculiar form of insanity, 
the periodical . . . disappearance. 

“Monsieur has received good news, as I see,” the 
concierge ventured, smiling and moving forward. “ Ah, 
it is a real pleasure to me to bring the good news to 
monsieur, even if I do not know more than that the 
news are good ; and were you to tell me, I should not 
be more advanced,” he added, philosophically. 

“ For once you are right. Father Loriot,” Thornton 
answered, good-naturedly. “ Here is a piece of a hun- 
dred cents for you. Shall I tell him ?” he asked him- 
self, spinning the coin into Loriot’s cap; and, half 
involuntarily, he immediately said, aloud: “I am go- 
ing to be married.” 

“ At your age !”, the other ejaculated, bluntly, rais- 
ing his eyebrows ; “ Ah ! but I beg your pardon, mon- 
sieur! I did not wish to say that. After all, one 
marries, or one doesn’t marry — as for the rest . . .” 

“Come, come!” interrupted Thornton, suddenly 
annoyed by the remark, for it reminded him that he 
had discounted his youth, as he had all his other pos- 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


13 


sessions; “ I shall not go out for dinner to-night. Fetch 
me a pastry from the nearest confectioner’s, and a bottle 
of wine . . . Homanee. After that you might bring 
me a cup of your best coffee.” 

“ As to the coffee, for instance, monsieur shall be sat- 
isfied ; I promise you it shall be ... ” and he kissed the 
tips of his fingers expressively as he bowed himself out. 

When the door was closed, Thornton sat down to 
refiect over the situation. His sensations were sufli- 
ciently complex to be worthy of analysis, and, occa- 
sionally, sufficiently incongruous to provoke a smile. 
He, Robert Thornton, married ! Ha, ha! Well over 
fifty, usually penniless, slightly tare, known to every 
cabman and ballet- dancer in town, yet too often ignored 
by quondam friends — true, every word of it — and she 
knew it, and still cared to marry him ! Whew 1 But, 
after all, surprising as this might seem at first, what 
would marriage mean under the circumstances? To- 
day, Sarah Wyse was no more the Sarah he had court- 
ed than was he the Robert of those distant days ; and 
he remembered that yesterday the two neighboring 
spires wej;e simultaneously chiming to a wedding, and 
this noon both tolling to a funeral. “You must ac- 
cept life as it is,” he said, sententiously, but with a sly 
twinkle in his left eye, for the use of the professional 
sceptic. “ Sarah has not gone to pieces, whatever I may 
say about it, and I have. It’s a bad bargain for her !” 

His glass told him a realistic tale; his memory one 
even less flattering. Devilish little romance or ideal 
about that ! But, bad as he was, or had the reputation 
of being, he was not quite devoid of conscience, nor was 
he a dealer in prevarication. His life had been a dismal 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


14 

failure, and he admitted it frankly, recognizing that 
he alone was to blame for it and not circumstances, as 
many a weaker man might have pleaded. He did not 
entirely regret it ; there had been times when he had 
made of artificial light a very fair substitute for the 
sun, and he did not scruple to recall them with pleas- 
ure. On the whole, he was worth reclaiming; but was 
his redemption practicable? Sarah Wyse evidently 
believed it ; Thornton doubted. 

He did not hesitate to accept her offer, not as being 
an advantage in a worldly sense, but because, when he 
was still capable of love, he had loved this woman with 
all his heart; because, as the years passed on, he had 
continued to love and admire her, with decreasing 
strength of feeling, no doubt, but still with all the 
feeling of which he was capable, call it love or what 
you may. About their married life there could be no 
romantic halo excepting such a mild light as memory 
might shed over it. They would have not much money, 
and would probably be compelled to live on the old 
family plantation, in Cuba, now little better than a 
ruin ; and to a man accustomed to the daily fictitious 
interests of a rather fast, by no means irreproachable, 
life in European capitals, the change involved great 
self-denial. Nevertheless, as I said, Thornton did not 
hesitate. 

It was ten years since they had met. In these ten 
years he had fallen steadily — rapidly, in the estimation 
of others, still more rapidly in his own. The effron- 
tery under which he concealed his feelings before the 
world was only skin-deep. In the solitude of his room 
he recognized just how good and just how bad he was. 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


75 


and deplored the fatality of a decadence which he ap- 
preciated at its exact value, but which he was unable to 
check. Hitherto there had been no sufficient motive 
for self-denial ; his own family had long since refused 
to recognize or help him ; and, in a somewhat childish 
way, he nourished the idea of retaliation upon them. 
If, out of their millions, they could not afEord to give 
him as much as was requisite to live respectably, he 
would discount the family name, and in this way oblige 
them to bear their share of the shame (for to him pov- 
erty was distinctly a shame). The mistake was as 
much theirs as his ; and, considering that on the one 
hand two or three thousand a year would make no dif- 
ference to them, whereas to him it made all the differ- 
ence between a gentleman and a man who lives upon 
his wits, their refusal to help him was, under the cir- 
cumstances, little less than criminal. 

And Sarah? Sarah, in a certain way, must be to- 
day very much what she was ten or twenty years 
ago — “ Beautiful Sarah Wyse,” or, again, “ Cruel Sarah 
Wyse,” as some preferred to call her. Thornton rose 
and walked to the mantelpiece, over which hung a 
miniature on ivory of “ Miss Sarah,” and looked at it 
for a long time. “ How well she must know exactly 
what I am worth !” he said aloud, as he stood holding 
the portrait to the light. 

It was a singular yet beautiful face ; the brow of a 
great lawyer, above which rose heavy waves of fine, 
black hair, and beneath it the exquisite, delicate feat- 
ures of a very young girl, while between the two ex- 
tremes the indescribably splendid eyes enabled one to 
reconcile the severity of the head with the gentleness 


76 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


of the face — a contrast equally borne out in her charac- 
ter, for she was, at will, a keen-sighted woman of the 
world or a playful child. It was impossible to feel 
indifferent towards her ; some hated, but many loved, 
this paradoxical little creature, who did as much evil in 
this world as she did good. But of the evil that she 
wrought it should be said that it was done uncon- 
sciously, as it were, as if some mischievous elf had 
assumed control over her mind ; indeed, she wrought 
havoc in a soulless, impersonal way, so masterfully, so 
boldly, and with such a bubbling-over of fun, such an 
exuberance of wit revelling in its own spontaneity, 
that one hesitated to ascribe the responsibility to her 
personally rather than to some familiar Saijuajv, She 
never prepared her mischief ; she never struck behind 
the backs of her victims; the attack was perfectly 
frank, if cruel, and invited battle on open ground. 
Nor was it wise to retaliate unguardedly, for no one 
was ever known to defeat or dismay her. 

Of the good she did in this world there is but little 
known, for she seemed ashamed to do it before wit- 
nesses. Yet the great popularity which she unques- 
tionably enjoyed among the poor and among the work- 
ing-classes would of itself be sufficient proof of the 
debt they owed her. She was not often kind in man- 
ner to any but children ; then, indeed, she became a 
child herself — laughed, played, quarrelled, and kissed, 
as one of themselves, stopping in her play to turn sud- 
denly on the astonished parents and, making use of 
the children as a lever, pry them off their pedestal of 
conceit and self-complacent knowledge. To the wom- 
en she spoke severely, to the men tauntingly; and 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


17 


with the former her word rankled until the advice so 
earnestly, so soundly — nay, even so violently — offered 
was considered, and its evident value outweighed the 
resentment that mothers felt at being corrected by one 
who had no children of her own. With the men it 
was otherwise; they were dazzled by the beauty and 
fearlessness of this frail creature, and through these sen- 
suous impressions they remembered the biting words 
she had spoken. They remembered and pondered them, 
and eventually — for forgetfulness and lack of consider- 
ation are the chief enemies of the working-classes — they 
recognized that she was right. More than one man, on 
the verge of the chute down-hill, paused at the top as 
she warned him back to better ways. Their gratitude 
was not always delicately expressed, but it was the deep- 
er for its sincerity. I recall, for instance, a visit she 
made to a brute of a blacksmith, whom her fearless 
tongue had stung into respectable behavior towards his 
family ; he was in bed, ill of the illness that carried him 
off, and had sent for her to say : “ I always thought. 
Miss Sarah, that you was a devil in woman’s clothes. 
In my day I’ve licked every man, woman, and child 
in this town ; then you come along and licked me. I 
wish you’d a’ done it twenty years sooner — why didn’t 
you? Your way ain’t what we folks think kindness 
ought to be, but with money and help and all the vis- 
itin’ you’d a mind to give us, you couldn’t have done 
half the job you did the day you made me so mad. 
I wished you was a man and I could pound you to a 
jelly ; that’s so. Miss Sarah ! I never could hit a wom- 
an .. . well . . . yes ... in the family, but not often 
... so I thought on what you said, and thought on it, 


18 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


till it came to me what you meant, and, damn me, says 

I, she’s a trump, that little woman is; and by , 

that’s just what you are. Miss Sarah, a trump !” 

In the hills of Cuba, where well-armed men only 
dared to venture in bodies. Miss Sarah rode alone. 
The brigands knew and admired her for her beauty 
and her pluck. The runaway slaves of former days, 
as well as the outcasts upon whom crime had been 
forced by cruel treatment, came out of their hiding- 
places to greet “ Mees Sarrah,” and laugh with this lit- 
tle Puck-Titania of their wild ranges. For these out- 
laws she found kind words, and for their wants her ca- 
pacious alforjas* always contained something — never 
enough to satisfy, but enough to relieve, for that was 
the fundamental principle of her philosophy of charity. 

Thornton recalled all this as he stood gazing at the 
slightly faded miniature. What would she do with 
him ? If any one was able to redeem him, Miss Sarah 
was ; but . . . how great an undertaking that was, he 
only knew. 


II 

A FORTNIGHT later they were married ; and on the 
same day, from the stern of the Garthagena, they 
watched the spires of New York grow smaller and 
fainter in the golden distance. 

“We are a little old, Kobert,” said Miss Sarah, “to 
be starting on our honeymoon. What will the future 
* Saddle-bags. 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


Id 


say of this day’s work ? If we are wise now, then we 
have been great fools for more than twenty-five years; 
if, on the other hand, we are fools to-day after such a 
probation, it shows that our wisdom was but a strait- 
waistcoat we were anxious to throw off. . . . After all, 
one must live a little.” She laughed and sang sud- 
denly: ‘^Oui! vivre, aimer ^ et mourir T . . . but 
stopped as if frightened. . . . ^‘Mourir? oh no, not 
now ! and yet we are going, even as the song has it, to 
the land where the orange-blossoms blow. Is it too 
late, Robert . . . f ’ 

“ To mend ? . . . never !” he answered, half in jest, 
half earnestly. 

“ Ah ! you have lived up to that sentiment, Robert,” 
she retorted, pointedly, “ but I believe you would have 
done better by the ‘stitch in time.’” 

“Well, well, little woman,” he replied, seating him- 
self beside her and taking her hand. “ Perhaps it is 
your own fault that you have no better husband to- 
day.” 

“ That is true enough !” she said, quickly, wilfully 
mistaking his meaning. “ But am I to blame for your 
being no better than you are?” Then, pretending to 
shiver, as she saw the ground become dangerous, she 
added, before he could speak, “ How damp it is ! Let 
us go below. Are you going to take good care of me, 
Robert? A gift for a gift, then, as the French say, 
and I shall be a devoted nurse to you and earn my 
reward of love,” and, tapping his cheek playfully, she 
looked up into his eyes and smiled. “Come, you shall 
not take cold. Your hand, my lord !” As they moved 
forward a sailor sang on deck : 


80 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


“ The moon, the moon, it was red in the west — 

Oh-ho ! yo-ho and a-ho ! in the west ; 

The laddie his lassie he pressed to his breast — 

Oh-ho ! yo-ho and a-ho ! to his breast ; 

Bonny moon ! honeymoon I 
Oh-ho ! yo-ho ! heave-ho I” 

They stopped and listened for a moment, smiled as 
they looked at each other, and, without speaking, went 
down the companion-way. It was true; they were 
married, and, even at their age, there was a honey- 
moon. 


Ill 

Is life worth living on a plantation or a ranch ? The 
noes have it, I think; but there is a minority report to 
come, though not from Robert Thornton. He had an- 
ticipated, and was prepared to undergo, a considerable 
amount of ennui, but the dreary monotony and the iso- 
lation of this existence fairly appalled him. He had 
believed in the beginning that he could learn sufficient 
Spanish to carry on the business of the estate himself ; 
but after several months of constant, if unproductive, 
effort, he was obliged to admit that acquiring a new 
language at fifty is a very different matter from that it 
was at fifteen. Then, there was really no business to 
carry on. The whole product was sold to the same 
firm of commission merchants whose price was fixed 
for them in London. The supplies, the labor, the 
whole working of the plantation, were in the hands of 
a contractor. The administrator’s oflSce was, in reality, 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


81 


but that of the overseer in the old slave-days; and, with 
the best will in the world, it was impossible for Thorn- 
ton to stand for hours in the hatey"^ and yell at the 
mongrel crowd of negroes and Chinamen that under- 
stood neither English nor Spanish. 

Moreover, these quondam slaves were different from 
those he had known as a child in our South. They 
seemed to him to possess all the disagreeable traits and 
none of the qualities of the old plantation negro. Nor 
were they slow to recognize his inutility. In their 
eyes he was no more than a luxury, a species of pet 
belonging to Miss Sarah — her body-slave, as it were — 
and among themselves in the ha7'rancon \ he was called 
“ Miss Sarah’s husband,” or, still more simply, “ the hus- 
band” — a designation that in Catholic countries carries 
less dignity than we allow that occupation. 

Sometimes, in the beginning, Thornton accompa- 
nied the macheterosX to the field, and, lying on a pile 
of cane -strippings, he watched and listened to the 
workers. A pretty scene ! The morning air is fresh 
in feeling and fragrance. The gray light on the tall, 
waving squares of green possesses a peculiar decora- 
tive quality of color, lying in broad, fiat washes be- 
tween the heavy, dew-damp outlines. A transparent 
mist, in which the negroes stand knee-deep, stretches 
itself sleepily, lazily along the ground, as if nature also 
were reluctant to begin the day’s work. In the east 
a bar of slate-gray cloud, filled to the rim with molten 

* Sugar-yard, where the cane residues are spread to dry in the 
sun after passing the crushing-rolls. 

f Negro-barracks. 

X Those who use the machete^ a long pointless chopping-knife. 

6 


82 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


gold, suddenly cracks and overflows, the yellow streams 
licking the upper curves before pouring a triumphant 
tide of light and life over the dead fields. Behind the 
curtain of cane the steam-whistles of the neighboring 
ingenios^ each in turn puncture the stillness of the 
horizon ; and a moment later the long, swinging steel 
blades are ringing clearly, merrily, with an occasional 
gleam of light through the green mass, now alive with 
sounds ; . . . the rustling hush of the falling cane . . . ; 
the sibilant, whispering noise of the long leaves 
rent from the stem — a noise that resembles the crisp 
flurring of wild-geese overhead . . . ; the kerling- 
clang -chick^ kerlang - cling - cut^ of the “chopping into 
lengths and, behind the falling screen of swaying 
steins, the barbaric singing of the hurrying harvesters 
. . . now a hundred voices, low, but rising, rising to- 
gether . . . now a sudden silence pierced by a single 
wailing note, answered afar off by one negro, repeated 
by a second, caught by a third, contrasted, thrown back 
and passed down again, as were it a lacrosse ball, faster 
and faster, until the notes, coming closer and closer, 
are welded together in one great shout . . . swelling, 
swelling stronger, higher, wilder, until it finally bursts 
from each expanded chest and throbbing throat into a 
yell of barbaric ecstasy. There is no echo in the open 
fields, and the sound ends sharply, while fora moment 
the steel blades sing kerling - clang - chick^ ker- 

lang - cling - cut . . .; from down the line the song 
comes again, now patient and pathetic, now loud and 

* Plantations. 

t The cane is classified as of orie cut (or length), two, or three 
cuts. 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 83 

exultant, a joyous spring of melody cut off just before 
the full climax . . . ; and after a silence, nearly, never 
quite, the same thing over and over again, a little less 
spirited, a little less loud, as the sun rises higher in the 
hard, white sky, until all joy and life are quenched by 
the heavy noon heat. And the morning’s work is 
done. 

Amidst all this activity, Thornton alone had accom- 
plished nothing. At first the novelty of the scene 
amused and interested him ; but that soon wore off, 
although the barren fact remained that all were work- 
ing, he only excepted. It depressed him to recognize 
it, and in these moments he told himself that he was 
the only useless one, and wandered back to the house, 
convinced that even in this land of slaves he was a 
pariah. He was not unduly conceited, yet he liked to 
recall the many years during which thirty thousand 
seemed a small income ; but he remembered equally 
well the other years when one thousand seemed a large 
one. And between these remembrances he smoked 
his Powhatan, as he paced tlie long avenue of mango- 
trees, wondering what he could do, and invariably ar- 
riving at the same conclusion — nothing! 

Withal, and in spite of his disappointment, he was 
kind to his little wife, and she was grateful to him, 
more for his patience, his self-denial, his conscientious 
endeavor to lead a “sober, virtuous, and righteous life,” 
than for his constant, somewhat pathetic, devotion to 
her. Their existence on the Santa Clam was a simple 
one, dull and uneventful ; but this she assumed to be 
right ; for if in books she liked only the romantic, in 
life she believed only in the real and simple. Heroes 


84 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


and heroines were proper enough in fiction, and great, 
stirring scenes became them well ; but a scene between 
a gentleman and a lady was to be frowned upon. If 
Don Juan amused her in verse, she despised him in real 
life ; the cloven foot might dance in a way to delight 
her imagination, but the patent-leather shoe always 
seemed spattered with mud, even if it had but just been 
wiped and oiled ; and she admitted a vast distance be- 
tween the vice suggested by ennui^ and politely exe- 
cuted, and the same vice born of ignorance or misery. 
Like most good women, she could forgive, sometimes 
even forget, past offences, or at least consider them 
atoned for by present repentance ; and so, during the 
first year and a half of her married life. Miss Sarah 
was happy — as happy as she felt was fair at her age. 

An hour or two after sunrise, Thornton and his wife 
rode about the estate, saw that the work was rightly 
begun, and returned to the somewhat dilapidated “ liv- 
ing-house,” where for the remainder of the morning 
she busied herself with household matters and letter- 
writing. Breakfast was made at eleven or thereabouts, 
and after coffee they sat together either in the cool re- 
ception-room or on the veranda, according as the wind 
blew. He read aloud to her, and this decided, practi- 
cal little woman always chose fairy tales, romances of 
chivalry, or sensational novels. Poetry and “ instruc- 
tive ” reading she liked only in her own room. Of all 
books she was most fond of “ Don Quixote,” and she was 
rarely without a volume of the works of the ingenious 
gentleman, which might account for her own under- 
taking of reforming Thornton. 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


85 


IV 

More than a year had passed thus, and Miss* Sarah 
looked upon her experiment as permanently successful. 
Thornton took little interest in what happened outside 
of the house ; when visitors came, he usually retired to 
his own room upstairs, where he now spent the greater 
part of his time. He acknowledged that he was writ- 
ing a book, though on what subject he refused to tell. 
His hours had, of late, become very irregular ; many a 
time the administrator had marked the light of his 
lamp long after sunrise, and Miss Sarah, rejoicing to 
find that he was really engrossed in his work, became 
more and more confident. 

I am very happy,” she wrote to one of her friends 
about this time. “ Robert is entirely and absolutely 
recovered. I did not know at first which to dread 
most: the temptations of civilization, or the demoral- 
izing influence of ennui; but now that he is writing a 
book and working with such interest, I am sure this is 
the best mode of life for him. He is very kind to me, 
and always auxpetits soins, as you must remember him 
twenty-five years ago. My only troubles are physical ; 
I am an old woman now . . . can you tell on which 
side of fifty ? . . . and, entre nous, nearly as old as I 
shall ever be. My health is failing rapidly, but I can 
go now ; my work is well done.” 

One evening, not long after this letter was written, 


86 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


Thornton felt himself en train / the morning light sur- 
prised him at his table, not weary, but excited with the 
success of his effort. Only one more chapter, and the 
rough copy of his book was finished ; he did not hope 
to write it that day, but the chapter stood complete in 
his head, and he wished to put the skeleton on paper 
while the impression was vivid and fresh. But at that 
moment he felt the need of a short respite from work, 
and he thought the music of the cane-cutters would not 
only soothe his over-excited mind, but, by its contrast 
with the scenes he was describing, refresh and stimu- 
late his imagination. As he stood at the door of the 
veranda, the administrator came out of his room on 
the ground-floor, and Thornton asked him where they 
were cutting that morning. 

“ To-day, Don Roberto, is a holiday,” he answered. 
“We kill a couple of cows, and distribute the meat 
among the negroes. After the early meal, and that 
will soon be over, the dancing will begin. If you have 
never seen it, it is worth watching at least once. Come 
over with me tO' the sugar-house first, where you will 
see the mulattoes at play ; it is a pretty dance, grace- 
ful, and sometimes full of plantation wit, but it has 
not the barbaric quality of the ‘ black dance.’ ” 

They crossed the hatey together, and joined the 
small crowd under the cane-shed. Two bright-eyed 
yellow boys were endeavoring to start the ball by 
dancing on the stone -floor while they vigorously 
strummed their rude guitars. As usual, there was 
much smirking and shuffling and affected reluctance, 
until old Teresa, one of the house-servants, a burly, 
curly-headed mulattress, glided into the ring ; a young 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


87 


ox-driver stepped forward as her vis- d- vis, and the 
dance began. Whatever Teresa did, the other must 
reverse. If she raised her right hand, her partner must 
be ready with his left to catch thej^ downward blow. If 
she ran he must follow. Her every intention he must 
intercept, and as the two warmed to their work it was 
a pretty sight to watch their smooth, agile movements 
— a perfect gestural interpretation of the music. Little 
by little others were drawn into the dance, and the fig- 
ures became strangely complicated. Though each pair 
was dancing for itself alone, oblivious of all the others, 
their sense of time was so perfect that they seemed to 
be carrying out some intricate, yet, from the general 
harmony of the parts, evidently prearranged, figure. 
Among these, the Four Hundred of the plantation, 
who looked down with scorn upon the black rabble be- 
low, many a marriage (perhaps it were more prudent to 
say many a mating) was suggested during the dance, 
and eventually consummated without official interfer- 
ence or religious sanction — an expensive blessing, 
which the Cuban half-breed rightly considers of ques- 
tionable value. 

After watching this performance for about an hour, 
Thornton returned to the house, took his bath and cup 
of coffee, and sat down again before his table. But the 
spell was broken ; he was no longer in the mood for 
writing, and through the open window the noise of the 
drums, accompanied by weird, abrupt cries, floated into 
the room and disturbed him. For some time he perse- 
vered, but soon recognizing the futility of his endeavor, 
he slipped a pistol into his pocket, and strolled over 
towards the harrancon. 


88 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


The harrancon, or negro-barracks, was a large, one- 
storied, square building, nearly two hundred feet wide 
on the outside. In the centre of the open space stood 
a small rectangular house, where, in the old slave days, 
the chief of the negroes lived ; and once the gate was 
closed, shortly after sunset, the old negro became a 
king until sunrise the next morning, when the watch- 
man beat the gong to work, and he was once more a 
slave with the rest. To-day the little house is unoccu- 
pied, and used only on great occasions ; for now there 
is no ruler in the negro quarters. The spirit of de- 
mocrac}^ has invaded even this last distant refuge of 
the ancien regime^ and “every fool is lord in his own 
house.’' 

Thornton pushed his way through the throng of 
Chinamen and hideous negro-Celestial mongrels that 
fringed the black crowd, and, seizing a chair that stood 
before one of the open doors, he sat down in the shade 
of the central house, from which place he could see all 
that was going on. The negroes were by this time too 
much excited to mind his presence. Opposite to him 
four large fellows, dressed only in a pair of short calico 
breeches and a loose shirt, with ends dangling, faced 
one another in pairs. Between their legs, and tied by 
a string to their waist, they held a rude drum, three 
feet long, covered at the wide, upper end with a piece 
of ass’s skin, but open at the narrow bottom. To one 
of the hoops a piece of a tin can was affixed, and each 
drummer had a similar fragment tied to his left wrist. 
In his right hand he held a short, thick stick with which 
he beat the drumhead continually, scratching one piece 
of tin against the other, and producing the low sounds 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


89 


bj pounding the skin with the ball of the left thumb : 

Tum-toohm td6hm-a-rah-rah 1 

Tum-toohm tdohm-a-rfih-rah I 

The other negroes stand in a thick line around a clear 
space, twenty feet in diameter. All are excited, but si- 
lent yet. For more than an hour the monotonous pound- 
ing of the drums has been recalling — to the older ones, 
wild dancing scenes far away in scarce-remembered Af’ 
rica ; to the younger, the intense excitement of more 
recent fiestas; and awakening an inherited remem- 
brance, if such a term may be used, of a distant home, 
not here . . . somewhere . . . quien sdbe where it 
might have been ? To them the ceremony has a super- 
natural, awful significance, and the ecstasy into which 
the dancers hope to fall is but an exotic form of re- 
ligious hysteria, common enough under some other 
name both in civilization and out of it. 

The drum calls ; and in the crowd many a woman 
hesitates; shall she be the first to step out into the 
ring? The drum calls: 

Tum-toblim tOGhm-a-rah-rSh ! 

Tum-toohm td&hm-a-rah-rah I 

Oh ! the call of the drum ! of the spirit-stirring 
drum ! . . . Who answers first ? Maya, Maya, the ex- 
cited one. See her jump forward with a cry, her whole 
body quivering to the rhythm of the drum-beat. She 
walks around slowly, looking fixedly ahead with star- 
ing, sightless eyes, marking time with jerky, quick 
gestures that betray the curbed, passionate energy be- 
neath. The drum beats low and slow — a prelude — and 
the crowd, taking up the new temper, clap their hands 


90 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


together and sing words they no longer understand to- 
day, and which, as children, they learned by ear from 
the old ones who came from “ over there 

Yah ! — yS-yah ! Ca-wm-ah ! 

Halah ! halah mee-oh 1 Halah I 
Hah — ayee — yah ! 

Insensibly the time quickens; the drummers, in pairs, 
with faces close together, look into each other’s eyes 
as if their whole soul were concentrated in that gaze, 
and mutually hypnotize each other, as they rise and fall, 
from toe to heel. Under the loose white kerchief with 
flowing ends the dancer’s bosom heaves rapidly, and her 
fingers twitch. Her eyes are suffused, her shoulders 
bent forward, and her feet heavy as she moves slowly, 
smoothly, like a she- jaguar gathering herself up for a 
leap, and involuntarily the looker-on recalls the sullen 
lull that precedes a tropical thunder-storm. Her flesh 
feels the sting of all those eyes fastened upon it, watch- 
ing with cunning, relentless eagerness, and shudders as 
the drum calls louder and faster, 

Tum-toohm tdohm-S-rah-rilh 1 

Tum-toohra toblim-a-rah-rah ! 

The men are leaping up and down ; the excitement 
grows, and the seething crowd pushes inward, rising 
and falling with sudden, unexpected movements, yet 
in perfect time with the sharper clapping of the hands 
and the accelerated beat of the drum. The cries grow 
harsher, more commanding; the words change: 

Ah-wSyoh ! yahee yt\h ! 

Ali-wayoo ! yfih m3, y31i 1 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


91 


Faster yet ! To the centre of the ring Maya begins 
to totter ; her footsteps are uncertain ; with her head 
thrown far back, her mouth wide open and eyes up- 
turned, she plunges on as the drum insists: 

Tum-tobhm tdbhm-S-rah-rSh ! 

Tum-toohm toohm-S-rah-nth ! 

Look ! the spell is working — ha, ha ! the spirit de- 
scends ! Mark the rhythmic swaying of those black 
demons in the crowd, growing wilder, more erratic, 
more abrupt! Listen how frantically they clap and 
yell, those cries that are scarce human : 

Ah! sgcuway^h! nyargSh! 

SI gSh-ee-oh! 

Faster, faster, you drummers! faster, you negroes 
. . . clap your hands and cry tum-toohm ! with the 
drums. Cry aloud! — louder! And, mimicking the 
wild movements of the dancer, they crouch close to 
the ground, and rise and fall in their intense excite- 
ment, like a regiment of frogs. The old hags know 
when to change the cry ; Maya is staggering helpless- 
\y» “ Ah . . . ah . . . watch her carefully . . . there . . . 

now _ 

Ba-byelSh! qhe s6 sScSl 

Come along ! Don’t you see she is falling ? I tell 
you . . . sing! 

Ba . . . byelSh ! quS sS sScS 1 

And quicker the drums — quicker the cries . . . harsh, 
hoarse, like angry barking : 


92 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMEx\T 


Tum-toohm tobbm-S-rSb-rSh ! 

Tum-toobm tdbbm-S-r2b-r2b ! 

Down ! She is down ! Eh ? not yet ! not yet ! Then 

quicker, you black ! See her arms 

beat the air wildly as she pitches forward ! Ah, well 
done ! another step . . . just one. . . . 

Tum-tobbm tobbrn-S-r^b-rSb ! 

There she lies, the black b ,face downward. That’s 

right. Close in upon her. Yell, yell altogether; wake 
her once more ! Yell again, damn you ! 

Ah! la-lS-ydb-ee ! mee-tambob! 

LS-lS-yoo-^ I IS-lS-ybu-e^ I 

See, she moves — ha, ha 1 the old women have raised her 
to her feet. Come! just once more, Maya, dash your 
arms about ; reel, stagger and reel . . . This spirit is 
stronger than rum — ha, ha 1 There, fling yourself head- 
long into the dust, and lie there quivering in time to 
the triumphant rhythm of the drums. . . . 

Ab ! Sgmb6r6tab ! 

Ail ! S6mb6r6t5b I 

Tum-tobbm toobm-S-rab-rab ! 

Tum-tbbbm tbbbm-a-rSb-rab ! 

And now it is over ; in spite of the noise she lies 
quiet in the ring, like one dead. The yelling and 
clapping of hands cease ; she is borne insensible into 
the little house, seated in a high chair, and in the de- 
lirium that follows ‘‘she talks with the saints,” while 
the others listen eagerly to her incoherent ravings. 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


93 


Then she is put to bed, and outside the same thing 
begins again. The drums call ; another steps forward, 
passes through similar stages of intoxication and de- 
lirium, and is finally carried off to bed ; and so on until 
one after another all the women have undergone the 
ordeal. Even now that it is all over the drums still 
keep on their dogged refrain : 

Tum-tobhm toohm-S-rah-rah 1 

Tum-toohm toohm-a-rah-rah ! 

******* 

N’o one who has not witnessed this weird, barbaric 
dance for some hours at a time can understand the 
effect it produces upon the nerves. The unceasing, 
monotonous rhythm of the drum-beats, at first merely 
amusing, becomes wearisome, then exasperating, and 
finally as acute a torture as was produced in the good 
old days of the Inquisition by a small stream of water 
dripping for hours upon the same spot. When Thorn- 
ton returned to the house after watching the negroes all 
the forenoon, he felt dazed and so unnerved as to need 
a stimulant. He stopped at the kitchen door to ask 
for a cup of coffee, but the place was deserted, and he 
walked away into the dining-room, where he sat down, 
quite exhausted. On the table before him stood some 
glasses, a water-cooler, and the usual bottle of brandy 
for visitors. It had been uncorked that morning, and 
was still intact. For a moment he looked at it with a 
good-naturedly contemptuous smile, poured out a glass 
of water, raised it to his lips, and put it down again un- 
touched. For the first time in many months the old 
craving for spirits tempted him to forget his promise. 


94 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


“I don’t suppose it could do me any harm,” he said 
aloud, and he stretched out his hand towards the bot- 
tle ; at that moment a pigeon fluttered down from the 
veranda roof and the noise startled him; he hurriedly 
picked up the glass of water, drank it, and went out on 
to the porch. 

There was no one in the house, for the servants were 
all at the dance, and the fresh marks of wheels on the 
carefully raked sand of the avenue proved that Miss 
Sarah had gone for a drive. Thornton lighted a cigar 
and looked wearily down the red road that stretched 
away between the gleaming colonnades of palms, until 
the three lines seemed to meet a couple of miles away 
under a continuous canopy^ of green plumes. From 
the negro quarters the incessant beat of the drums 
floated towards him across the hot yard, and recalled 
the strange scenes he had been watching. It was very 
warm, and a sense of great weariness came over him. 
Yet he felt nervous and ill at ease, and with his hands 
in the pockets of his coat he walked slowly up and 
down before the hall door. Once or twice he stopped, 
as if lost in thought ; then, without any definite pur- 
pose, he wandered into the dining-room, and stood for 
a full half-minute hesitating and undecided before the 
table. Through the open windows he could see the 
deserted hatey and the motionless landscape behind it. 
In the house nothing moved; the door of the admin- 
istrator’s office was open, and he saw that the room was 
empty. He was absolutely alone. Half-unconsciously 
he raised the bottle, held it up to the light, smelt it, 
and poured out a glassful. 

“ It’s good stuff . . . genuine three-star,” he said, in a 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


95 


meditative way, “but I don’t think I care for it. Wa- 
ter will do.” 

• He laughed, and went out again. All was quiet as 
before ; the usual afternoon breeze had not yet sprung 
up, and the heavy, glossy foliage of trees hung limp and 
motionless, as though cut out of metal. Opposite the 
house a mariposa bush was bursting into bloom, and 
the large scarlet stars blazed provokingly out of the 
dark background of verdure. Thornton picked a few 
of them, put them into a vase, and emptied the water- 
cooler into it. Then he went out again and looked 
around. And as before, save over in the sugar-house 
and harrancon^ the whole surrounding landscape was 
silent and motionless. 

“Heigh-ho!” he said, stretching himself and yawn- 
ing wearily. “I think I’ll go to bed,” and, throwing 
away the stump of his cigar, he passed into the dining- 
room for another cup of water. The cooler was emp- 
ty, but the glass of brandy still stood on the table, and 
taking it up he drank it off. “ It can’t possibly do me 
any harm,” he repeated again, as he went upstairs to 
his room. 

Half an hour later he opened the door stealthily and 
listened. Ho one had returned, and with an exclama- 
tion of satisfaction he ran down the stairs, secured the 
bottle, and, hanging his coat over his shoulder so as to 
conceal its bulk, he walked away down the mango ave- 
nue towards the “Volcano,” an isolated cave in the lime- 
stone substratum of one of the fields. 


96 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


V 

Miss Sarah did not return until late in the after- 
noon. She had driven over to a neighboring planta- 
tion, and as the sun was very hot she felt both faint 
and tired ; so she sent Teresa down to the dining-room 
for the bottle of brandy that had been left out that 
morning. The girl soon came back to say that it was 
gone ; but as the house had been deserted during the 
greater part of the day, Miss Sarah supposed that 
some marauding negroes had stolen it, and dismissed 
the subject from her mind. After resting for an hour 
she asked for Don Roberto. 

“ He must be out,” Teresa answered, “ for his door 
is open, Mees Sarrah, and the room is empty. I saw 
him at the sugar-house this morning with Don Eusebio, 
and later, I believe, he went to the harrancon?^ 

“ Well, tell him when he comes in that I wish to 
see him here, Teresa. I am too tired to go down to 
dinner to-night, and you must bring me something up 
here.” 

But as the evening wore away and Thornton did not 
return, Mees Sarrah began to feel anxious. Then she 
remembered the missing bottle, and a terrible suspi- 
cion crossed her mind. With a cry she sprang from 
the bed and ran to her jewelry case, in the secret com- 
partment of which lay the envelope he had handed to 
her on his arrival from Europe, and which she had 


MISS SARAH'S EXPERIMENT 


97 


never opened ; she had thought the mere fact of his 
coming proved that he had signed the promise. For 
a minute she held it in her hands, wondering whether 
she should look at it now ; but her. courage failed her. 
“ If it is true, then it is a lie !” she groaned, somewhat 
inconsistently. “ Oh, I don’t want to know, I don’t 
want to know ! ” she added, piteously, and, tearing the 
paper into small fragments, she ran into the next room 
as if to escape from her fears. Here, on the desk, lay 
a pile of manuscript which she turned over nervously, 
until she came to the title-page. Across it was writ- 
ten, in Thornton’s bold hand, 

“ Confessions of a Reformed DrunhirdP 

“ Poor Kobert !” she said, as she read aloud. “ He 
has struggled bravely, I know, and I suppose we wom- 
en cannot understand the strength of such temptations. 
Well ! for better for worse I promised to take him ; for 
better for worse I shall stand by him. Oh ! Kobert, 
you poor, weak man !” 

She went back to her room and lay down on the 
bed, not to sleep, but to think and listen. Her loyalty 
to the man who was now her husband did not waver 
for an instant, and she blamed herself for his misfort- 
une. It was clearly all her fault. How could a man, 
accustomed to the excitement of metropolitan life, bear 
the exile, the dulness of such a prison life as they were 
leading ? Why had she led him into temptation ? What 
could she do to retrieve her mistake? Why had she 
not been more interested in his work, more devoted in 
her attentions to him, more constant in her care and 
watchfulness over him, instead of being an invalid to 

7 


98 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


be cared for by him? What, oh what could she do 
now? 

Deeply perplexed and worried, she cried herself to 
sleep. When she awoke, late the next morning, the 
whole horrible nightmare rose clearly before her mind. 
Without calling her maid, she dressed herself alone and 
cautiously, and opened the door of his room. Thorn- 
ton had returned and was seated before the table, 
asleep, his head lying on his outstretched arms. The 
manuscript lay under one hand, and, as Miss Sarah 
noiselessly moved up to him, she saw that the word 
“ reformed ” had been crossed out from the title with 
a vicious dash of the quill. 

“ Poor Pobert !” she said, below her breath. “ It 
was not his fault . . . but it is a long fight to fight over 
again,” and she left the room as noiselessly as she had 
entered. By skilful questioning, she discovered that 
none besides herself knew or suspected Thornton’s re- 
lapse, and it gladdened her heart to learn this as though 
it had been good news. 

In the afternoon, as she was lying on a couch under 
the awning of the veranda, he came down-stairs, smok- 
ing, as usual. Before the door he hesitated a moment, 
then walked up and kissed her hand. 

“ I am smoking,” he said, apologetically, and, with- 
out looking at her, he drew up a chair and sat down 
where she could not see his face. “ You look pale to- 
day, Sarah. I am afraid you are not very well ?” 

Involuntarily she pressed her hand over her heart 
and gave a little shudder. “Kobert,” she answered, 
very slowly, “if you have no objection, I think it 
would be better for us to go to New York. The doc- 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


99 


tor fiere is not doing me any good, and I should like 
to know what is the trouble with me. I know it is 
selfish — and, perhaps, I should not say anything about 
it, but I am not quite myself to-day. Would you mind 
if we were to go soon ? in fact, at once ?’’ 

Thornton was embarrassed, but on his guard ; did 
she know or not ? He hesitated before answering, and, 
to gain time, pretended to be lighting his pipe. Which 
was worse for him, this place or New York? He had 
lost all confidence in himself, and felt that any victory 
could only be temporary. The change of scene might 
help him ; but was it worth while ? Strangely enough, 
he did not look at the question from Miss Sarah’s 
standpoint as an invalid ; instinctively he had felt that 
the change was meant for him. 

“ I do not wish to interfere with your work, Kob- 
ert,” she continued, before he had determined what to 
say. “ I know you are deeply interested in your writing, 
and our moving may disturb you ; perhaps you would 
prefer to stay here until you have finished your book. 
I spoke just now as though I were in a great hurry ; 
but that was only because I am feeling so nervous I 
hardly know what I am saying. A few weeks would 
really not matter to me — much.” Then, as the recol- 
lection of the previous night’s suffering was forced 
upon her by her own words, she was unable to control 
herself any longer ; and, turning towards him, she said, 
quickly, her eyes filling with tears, “ You have changed 
the title of your book ?” 

He started and winced. Of course she knew all! 
He rose abruptly from his chair, walked to the end of 
the porch, and stood there for some time, looking ab- 


100 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


sently across the fields. Then, suddenly, he understood 
her sacrifice, her kindness ; and, going back to her, he 
took her hand, kissed it, and held it between his own. 
He was moved, and his emotion was both genuine and 
deep. 

“ I was afraid it would come to this,” he said, in a 
hesitating, uncertain voice. “ The better was for me, 
the worse for you. I did try, though, Sarah, and yes- 
terday morning I really believed it was — it was all 
past. Well, it is no use talking about it now; let us 
do whatever you think best. I don’t know how it will 
turn out, but,” he added, with a weak attempt at a 
smile, “ as your friend Sancho says, ‘ When the eggs 
come to be fried, we shall see.’ ” 

Miss Sarah looked up at him surprised, and smiled 
too ; it seemed to her as if the gloom that had settled 
over her life suddenly lifted. His penitent manner 
had effaced the memory of the wrong, at least tempo- 
rarily, and she was even now accusing herself of nar- 
row-mindedness, of lack of generosity. She felt very 
grateful to him for his apology, and his humble ac- 
knowledgment of wrong-doing hurt her; so, looking 
up at him with much tenderness in her eyes, she an- 
swered in the same strain : 

“ ‘ And God, who gave the wound, gives the salve !’ ” 

“ So may it prove, Sarah !” he said, bending down 
to kiss her hair. ‘‘ Whatever you do will be best.” 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


101 


YI 

It was not until after they had been established in 
New York for some time that Miss Sarah understood 
that she was really lighting against hope ; but if she was 
obliged to acknowledge this to herself, she would have 
considered it disloyal to breathe a word of complaint to 
any of her friends or to accept any sympathy from them. 
When alone, and that was often, she brooded over her 
misfortune, and prayed very humbly for help; yet there 
was no thought of recrimination in her mind. 

Even had Thornton been a model husband in every 
way, her life would have been sufficiently sad and mo- 
notonous. He left her early every morning to return 
only between five and six ; her failing health confined 
her to the house more than half the time, and the dis- 
mal little fiat which they could afford, in a very respect- 
able but very uninviting street, seemed like a narrow 
cell when compared to the plantation with its distant, 
dreamy horizons. The sinister row of uniform brick 
boxes over the way was a poor substitute for the broad 
green fields of waving cane, or the long stretches of 
rich red ground, bounded by colonnades of palms. The 
dull lights of a gray day chilled her to the soul ; and, 
accustomed as she had been to command amid general 
activity, she now deemed the praise of absolute dolce 
far niente more ironical than sincere. Yet her visit- 
ors invariably left the house amazed at her apparently 


102 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


high spirits and good humor, and many found Miss 
Sarah at fifty as young and as entertaining as was Miss 
Sarah at twenty-five. To those who knew her best 
her wit seemed less keen, less spontaneous, perhaps, 
and the pathos of suffering was often but thinly veiled 
by a smile. But why should she be unhappy? they 
asked. She never did have any heart; where should 
she have borrowed one in her old age? 

Thornton, on the other hand, seemed rejuvenated. 
At first he tried hard to regain some of the influence 
he had formerly held ; but although his friends were 
pleased enough to entertain him, they seemed content 
to promise work or employment and forget the prom- 
ises on the morrow. Many a former companion of 
his active days offered him the loan of a hundred dol- 
lars, without a thought of ever seeing the money again, 
yet declined to help him to anything permanent. So 
at the end of two or three months Thornton’s virtue 
began to wane, and his bad qualities came to the surface. 
The capabilities of New York in certain downward 
directions are entirely beyond question ; if Paris and 
London advertise their wickedness more openly, that 
of New York is more business-like. The corner-stones 
of its temples to Venus or Bacchus seem to have been 
laid with a steel spade instead of the traditional silver 
trowel. Paris drinks wine; London, beer or cham- 
pagne; New York drinks whiskey. But if the grape 
or hop vine “ had struck a fibre,” the grain spirit had 
struck an artery ; hence the effects of obedience to the 
great Persian’s command, 

“Drink ! for you know not whence you came nor why, 

Drink ! for you know not why you go, nor where,” 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


103 


are geographically different. It was not long before 
Thornton’s moral self succumbed, and he learned to 
forget his disappointment day after day in a way that 
involved neglect of everything and everybody. The 
first day that he came home in a doubtful condition, 
Miss Sarah was frightened for the first time in her ex- 
istence. That evening she had been suffering more 
than usual, and the diversion caused the pain to pass 
from her body to her mind. With a woman’s quick 
perception, she had understood as soon as he entered 
the room, and turned her face to the wall, pretending 
to sleep ; while he, willing and thankful to be thus 
deceived, went to bed, blaming his friends, or the men 
who called themselves so. 

To Miss Sarah this beginning was terrible; hitherto 
she had never been actually face to face with the demon 
of drink, and she still cherished a very small hope that 
he was more generous to his victims than he was re- 
puted to be. But that night she understood him, and 
learned not to underrate him. Being Thornton’s wife 
in the broadest sense of the word, she had forgiven, if 
not forgotten, before morning ; but during that night 
she suffered what many a woman, but no man, can tell. 
Yet of all the wild nightmares that haunted her pillow 
there remained the next day but a feeling of infinite 
pity for Thornton, and a great longing to help him who 
needed help so much. But this sentimental reasoning 
was far too subtle and generous for Thornton’s appre- 
ciation. He was nervous and moody on the morrow. 
As he walked down-town he thought over the events of 
the past twelve hours, and came to the conclusion that 
Miss Sarah had seen nothing — a conclusion which the 


104 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


optimistic view of life suggested bj liis morning cock- 
tail helped to confirm. Yet a small voice within him 
spoke to him of his wife’s kindness; and that same 
small voice of conscience helped him to keep up ap- 
pearances for some days thereafter. 

Notwithstanding his persistent efforts, he did not 
succeed in obtaining any employment, and soon be- 
came dependent on forgetting his disappointment at 
the expense of his good resolutions. Indeed, before 
long the decency of concealing the effects of his weak- 
ness ceased to seem necessary. Perhaps he still knew 
what he was doing and did not care ; perhaps, again, he 
was s@ near mother earth as to forget that he could go 
up the ladder as well as down. At all events, he con- 
tinued his downward course steadily, without any ab- 
rupt slidings, but also without any attempt to pause, 
much less to rise. 

In the face of these undeniable, brutally true facts. 
Miss Sarah persisted in seeming to ignore the real 
cause of Thornton’s demoralization. When some friend 
happened to be in the room at the time of his return 
from down-town, she would watch him grope his way 
to the sofa after making a tipsy bow, and explain, 
while she struggled with a ghastly smile, that it was liis 
devotion to her, his rigid economy in all matters per- 
taining to himself, that really caused this exhaustion. 
“The poor man merely takes a cup of coffee in the 
morning,” she would say ; “ goes without lunch so as to 
save a few cents ; and by evening he is so tired that he 
needs some stimulant, and, as he has eaten nothing all 
day, of course it goes to his head; but luckily it does 
not last more than a few minutes.” 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


105 


Day after day she repeated the same story, long after 
she had ceased to believe it herself, and she clung to 
this straw with pathetic desperation — although the 
truth, indeed, was cruelly evident, and it but exhausted 
the little vitality at her command to play her part with 
assumed sincerity. Sometimes, towards the end, she 
faltered in her explanation ; she knew that her hearers 
believed it no more than she did herself, and yet, gulp- 
ing down her sobs, and pretending to look out of the 
window, she bravely repeated the empty words, until, 
one day, she broke down utterly, and the doctor was 
hurriedly summoned. While her life was in immedi- 
ate danger, anxiety counteracted the usual effect of 
Thornton’s self-indulgence. He watched over her with 
the constant, matter-of-fact devotion — or attention — of 
a hospital nurse ; yet, while she was asleep, he ran out to 
pawn his clothes in exchange for whiskey. He knew, 
of course, that he was doing wrong, and despised him- 
self for his cowardice and weakness. By every solemn 
and sacred oath which his exalted imagination could 
invent or remember, he swore that each time should be 
the last, and yet but a few hours later he had made it 
the last hut one / and the only limit of that function is 
eternity. 

Let us endeavor to do him justice, even more than 
justice, and ask whether it be not our duty to pity a 
man afflicted by an imperious, incurable disease rather 
than to condemn him as a responsible sinner. Sane 
persons are not always absolutely qualified to judge or 
interpret the actions of the insane ; after pronouncing 
them unsound of mind, they are too apt to jump on to 
a high pedestal and attempt the cure of the patient 


106 MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 

from that altitude. Living, as we do, in well-regulated, 
civilized communities, and safe-guarded by our mutual 
relations to one another, we are rarely put to the test. 
But we see that among ourselves those who have seen 
and suffered most are the most lenient judges of human 
nature: they know its weakness; they have tested it 
practically. The community at large is rather prone 
to generalize in a vague, conceited way, and, having 
successfully passed through the ordeal of theoretical 
temptation, to repeat the pharisaic cant after drap- 
ing itself in a mantle of untried virtue. Before pro- 
nouncing sentence, let us remember that respectable, 
well-educated, high-minded men have become can- 
nibals — yea, even worse, ghouls — under the terrible 
temptations of hunger beneath an arctic night sky, and 
that these same men have sometimes returned to re- 
sume their respected stations in the community. Their 
knowledge of the power of temptation under abnormal 
conditions has taught them to be prompt to forgive and 
slow to condemn. From them we have a lesson to learn. 
In the kingdom of Alcohol and Opium there are many 
things undreamed of in our simpler philosophy. Let 
us beware of entering its limits ; at the same time, let 
us forbear to condemn too soon the unfortunate who 
have come into the power of the merciless despot. Of 
their struggles, of their temptations, of their fall, we 
know nothing save that they have fallen ; and to re- 
deem the fallen, Christ came among us and was cruci- 
fied. 

All this Miss Sarah felt deeply, if she did not formu- 
late it in these words. Thornton was a pitiable slave; 
to free him she had devoted the last and best energies 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


107 


of her life, but in vain ; and when she was once more 
able to totter from her bed to the sofa, she had al- 
ready accepted her martyrdom in a martyr’s spirit. 
The doctor had frankly admitted to her that her own 
end was approaching, and under the gray northern sky 
the little creole suffered cruelly. She longed for the 
southern sunshine, warm and bright ; she longed for 
the dreamy, tropical scenery, with its stretches of hot 
desolation, its poisonous insect life, its palm-bounded 
horizons. The dull light of winter made her shiver in- 
wardly as well as outwardly, and she believed that under 
^ the sun of Cuba the touch of approaching death would 
seem less damp, less chill. But for a long time Thorn- 
ton either did not or would not understand, and at last 
the doctor was obliged to exchange his tone of friendly 
advice for one of professional insistence. 


VII 

On the plantation Miss Sarah seemed to revive, but 
it was only the last ray from the dying lamp. The 
Cuban doctor soon acknowledged that it was only a 
matter of days, not weeks, and so she prepared herself 
quietly for the unknown life beyond, considering ev- 
ery arrangement in detail as she would have done in 
the case of any other important transaction. Every 
negro on the plantation was brought to her room, and 
she gave to each some little remembrance, that they 
might not forget to pray for her when she was gone. 


108 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


When she felt that the end must be very near, she 
called the administrator, Don Eusebio, and explained 
to him in detail how and where she wished to be 
buried. “ In that trunk,” she said, giving him her 
keys, ‘‘ you will find the money that is necessary to 
pay all my small debts, and the expenses of my fu- 
neral — why do you start, friend ? Some one must 
attend t^ these matters ... is it not so? Well, it 
is all written down in that little book ; you know 
my writing, so you will be able to read. Now, 
Don Eusebio, you have been a good friend to me 
and I should like you to wear this rin^ — it is of 
little value, but I was fond of it and have never 
been without it. And one thing more. Don Ro- 
berto, you know, is an invalid and — also for my 
sake — you must help him after I am gone. He may 
need—” 

At that moment Thornton entered the room with- 
out knocking. Miss Sarah looked at him eagerly, 
then sank back and turned her face to the wall. Go 
away !” she said, in English. “ Go away, Robert ; don’t 
trouble me now !” 

Oh . . . very well !” he growled, making an ironical 
bow. “If you are feeling that way, I can wait; . . . 
sorry to disturb you !” and he went out, slamming the 
door behind him. 

After a few moments Miss Sarah spoke, without 
turning her head. 

“ Don Eusebio !” she asked, “ are you still there ?” 

“/iS'i, senoritar She waited a little while, then asked 
again. “ Don Eusebio ... do you believe there is a 
God ?” 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


109 


“Ah, sefiorita^ sometimes it is difficult to under- 
stand. . . 

“ No . . . don’t say that !” she interrupted. “ Pray 
to him sometimes for me.” An hour later she called 
again, faintly, “ Don Eusebio !” 

‘^Senorita! do you wish anything?” he asked, kneel- 
ing by the bedside. “ Shall I call a priest ?” 

“ No, friend ; I am too near God to need a priest,” 
she answered. “ Good-by to you.” 

He took the little hand and kissed it. “ Yaya con 
Dios^ senorita mia .'” he said, reverently, and, crossing 
himself, he bent his head. She had said to him, “ Pray 
for me,” and the worthy man was unused to prayer. 
“ What a woman !” he kept repeating to himself in his 
perplexity. “ What a woman to be thrown away on 
him! But he shall not disturb the funeral. ... I shall 
send some brandy to his room and lock the door. . . . 
She had the heart of seven men, and the head of ten ! 
A woman for whom one might commit even a crime ! 
And ... It seems strange justice to take the good 
and leave the useless . . . but God knows best . . . and 
. . . and there must be an atonement, of course. . . . 
She bade me pray for her . . . what shall I say ? What 
does one say in prayers?” Then a light broke upon 
him. “ God 1” he said, aloud, “ thy will be done ; thou 
knowest what there is in my heart. Is there any need 
of words ?” 


110 


MISS SARAH’S EXPERIMENT 


YIII 

I WAS sitting one day in the smoking-room of the 

A House, waiting for a friend, when a tall, fine- 

looking man, about sixty years of age, took the chair 
next to mine, and the appearance at the door of a local 
celebrity afforded a pretext for opening the conversa- 
tion. My companion seemed to have travelled widely 
and seen much of the world. He spoke with evident 
knowledge on many objects, artistic, literary, and tech- 
nical, and was undoubtedly a man of ability. I was so 
much impressed by his easy conversation and pictu- 
resque criticisms that when he rose to go I said to 
him : 

“ May I ask, sir, what is your profession 

He hesitated a moment before answering, then look- 
ing straight at me with a curious, yearning expression 
in his eyes, he said, impressively : 

“ One of the worst, sir ; I am a drunkard.” 

Perhaps that man was Robert Thornton, perhaps 
again not ; for many a time since then, and in other 
places, I have believed that I was talking with Miss 
Sarah’s husband — there are so many like him ! 


LA LOUVE 


A STORY OF THE SPANISH BORDER 







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LA LOUVE 


A STORY OF THE SPANISH BORDER 
BOUT half- way between the unimportant little 



town of Hasparren and tiie yet smaller and less 
important hamlet of Istiiritz you may, even to-day, see 
the ruined walls of the Chateau de Graveraont. To 
tell the truth, these ruins are neither very imposing, 
very snggestivej nor very picturesque, and, were it not 
for the fact that they unquestionably are ruins, and 
that for some mysterious reason ruins of any quality 
appeal to the traveller’s imagination, I must doubt 
whether you would care to stop even long enough to 
jot down the name in your note-book. 

Your driver, who is certain to be either a Lartigues, 
a Labadie, or an Etchegoyen, will probably inform you 
that the last Count of Gravemont was killed in 1870 
at the battle of Orleans ; that the place was subse- 
quently sold, and that the proceeds, together with 
what was realized on the count’s personal effects in 
Paris, enabled his executors to pay a small percentage 
of his debts. That, like a true French nobleman, he 
looked upon the privilege of making debts as a birth- 
right, and divided them into two classes : debts of 
honor, that unfortunately required to be paid at once ; 


8 


114 


LA LOUVE 


and other debts, that fortunately did not require to be 
paid at all, at least during his lifetime. And as these, 
I grieve to say, are very commonplace facts and do 
not in any way atone for the simple homeliness of the 
ruin, you will probably continue your journey without 
further delay : whereas, had I been with you, I could 
have told you that the “She- wolf” was born and 
brought up in the eastern tower which you saw there 
on the very top of the hill. You don’t remember the 
“She-wolf” — that superb, large-eyed creature whom 
you met early yesterday morning between Bidart and 
Biarritz ? But perhaps you were not out betimes. 

Well, when you return tell Marceline to wake you 
any morning at a quarter before five, and take up your 
stand on the Falaise road a hundred yards or so behind 
the little octroi lodge. If you are early and have to 
wait, sit down under the tamarind hedge that skirts 
the cliff, and endeavor to find among your recollections 
something more beautiful than the vast panorama 
spread out before you ; something more ideal than the 
deep, varied, transparent coloring of that corner of 
Biscay ; something more delicate than the long pict- 
uresque line of mountains that begins at distant 
Yvauntelli on your left, and finally loses itself in the 
blue-green sea at Cape Lequeitio, seventy miles away 
on your right. 

Just as the sun begins to fiash on the glass dome of 
Lady Bruce’s “ Alhambra,” you will see the “ She- 
wolf” appear at the foot of the hill, running lightly 
and swiftly towards you. 

Her brown legs are bare to the knee, and, with her 
right hand on her hip, she holds the folds of her short 


LA LOUVE 


115 


skirt away from them. Her shirt — a fisherman’s fian- 
nel — is open in front, and her white fichu is hanging 
loosely half-way down her back. Most probably a 
braid of her heavy black hair has slipped from her 
blue handkerchief and looks alive with bright salt 
drops shaken from the basket of silver-scaled sardines 
which she steadies on her head witli her raised left 
hand. When she reaches the octroi she will stop, 
put down her basket for the long-coated, mustachioed 
little official to examine; quickly readjust her hair, 
pull the neckcloth forward, and shake out a few inches 
of skirt. For a moment she will stand there, panting, 
her black eyes and white teeth flashing in the sun, and 
the beautiful swelling curves of her breast rising and 
falling regularly. Then after a rapid survey of her 
dress she will bend down, raise her basket to her head 
with a graceful sweeping gesture, and stride away tow- 
ards the halU with the step of a goddess. I am not 
sure that you will not follow and make her an offer 
for her whole basketful of fish — as others have done 
before you — and possibly ask her where she got her 
name. But that is what I had begun to tell you. 

Some years ago, yet not so very many after all, 
Maitre Ilennebutte, notary at Bayonne, received from 
the Vicomte de Gravemont a short letter, informing 
him of the sudden death of the count, his father, to 
whose titles and estates he thus succeeded. In this 
letter he requested Maitre Hennebutte, in not over- 
polite but unmistakably precise language, to dismiss 
the acting administrator, sell the common furniture 
now in the chateau, and forward to Paris such pict- 
ures, etc., as might be worth keeping. He was, more- 


116 


LJl LOUVE 


over, to appoint some keeper at a low salary to look 
after the place and live in the servants’ commons ; and, 
as soon as was convenient (the sooner the better) to 
send in the accounts to a certain business agent whom 
the count had intrusted with the management of his 
affairs. 

A month later the chateau was stripped, and Victor 
Yispaly, a young Basque farmer, was duly installed as 
keeper. Yispaly brought his newly married wife with 
him, and not long after their arrival she bore him a 
daughter whom they named Cathchaline, and who af- 
terwards became the woman they call the “She-wolf.” 
Her early education — if such a term can be applied to 
the teaching which nature gives the poor — was that 
which children of her class in life receive, or fail to 
receive, according to your idea of what education 
means. In one of the two loose little shirts which 
composed her entire wardrobe the child learned to 
crawl, walk, and finally run about in the silent, deserted 
court-yard where the grass had begun to grow between 
the square paving-blocks. She frightened the restless, 
cackling hens, and was in turn frightened by the slower 
but equally noisy geese. From behind the fence-bars 
she gazed in silent wonderment at the silent gazing 
cow, and with instinctive fellow-sympathy for dirt she 
wallowed in the mud among the perpetually rejuve- 
nated litters of young pigs. Like other children, she 
received her allotted share of caresses and her allotted 
share of reproofs; laughed, cooed, cried, and with a 
comically solemn expression of face pondered the mys- 
teries of life while squeezing one or more fat little 
fingers between her hardening gums. In time she 


LA LOUVE 


117 


learned first to stammer and then to talk her pretty 
patois, and eventually mastered a little bad French 
and some worse Spanish. 

As she grew older she gave unmistakable signs of 
possessing a proud disposition and a quick temper, 
which might be accounted for partly by the solitary life 
she led, with no one to restrain her but her over-fond, 
indulgent, careless parents, and partly by the seeming 
tyranny which such a small thing was obliged to affect 
in order to secure obedience from the animals intrusted 
to her care. Still, in spite of her pride and indepen- 
dence, she was a kind, affectionate, good-natured child ; 
wild, as was to be expected from such training as she 
received, yet reasonably obedient to kind words. 

Perhaps the most positive proof of the real goodness 
of her heart was to be found in her love for all animals, 
domestic or wild, a love which they seemed to under- 
stand and, as far as lay within their possibilities, to re- 
turn. She scampered over the hills with her merry, 
mischievous goats, merry and mischievous as they; 
and climbed trees after the bushy-tailed squirrels, who 
sat and looked at her with their intelligent little heads 
cocked on one side, apparently as well amused to gaze 
at her as she was to watch them. The bats and owls 
that had moved with their families into the deserted 
rooms of the chateau confided to her the results of 
their silent moralizing; and even the loose-tailed liz- 
ards lost their perpetually frightened expression when 
she came near, and winked at her rather pointlessly 
with their long, ever-moving eyes. In a word, she de- 
lighted in nature, and loved her dumb companions bet- 
ter perhaps than she could have loved other children. 


118 


LA LOUVE 


When she was ten years old, Yispaly’s sister died, 
and her orphan boy, Pascal, came to live at the cha- 
teau. For a long time Cathchaline could look upon 
him merely as one more in the circle of her playmates. 
It is true that the power of expression by articulate 
speech had not been denied him, as, for some wise rea- 
son no doubt, nature had denied it to her other chil- 
dren ; but to the girl he did not seem to be able to say 
more than could these others, and it was only by in- 
sensible degrees that she came to recognize him as 
superior to them, and indeed to herself. They led to- 
gether the same life that hitherto she had led alone, 
yet little by little she unconsciously acknowledged his 
leadership, and allowed — nay, even expected — him to 
propose and direct the day’s work or the day’s play. 
She sang to the tune he whistled, talked with him 
when he talked, and was content to remain silent if 
that pleased him better than talking. Together they 
rambled over the country, clambered over the rocky 
hills, or, lying on their backs in the tall fragrant grass, 
gazed up at the passing clouds; and for four years 
nature pursued her silent work of equally developing 
these two children physically and mentally. Their 
physical progress was evident, undeniable, and its re- 
sults beautiful ; but the more complex process of men- 
tal development was less easy to follow or describe. 
Whatever the steps might be, the results must be 
healthy, pure, and good, and there was no one to ques- 
tion them or interfere with their achievement by ask- 
ing perplexing and unanswerable hows and whys. 

So things went on happily until Cathchaline was 
fourteen and Pascal perhaps eighteen — children stilly if 


LA LOtJVE 


119 


you will, but ready at any moment to develop into 
man and woman should the proper agency be brought 
to bear upon thpm. About this time Yispaly took a 
severe cold, which developed into pneumonia, and, in 
the natural order of things, he died. To the great world 
outside, his death, like the death of any man of his class, 
was an accident of no greater moment than the fall of 
a tree or the drying-up of a well ; but to the little 
world at Gravemont it was a great event. Pascal was 
no longer willing to accept from a woman the simple, 
kind hospitality which his uncle had offered him ; he 
felt that it was tiine for him to work and help the two 
lonely women, instead of receiving help from them. So, 
less than a month after Vispaly’s recall from this world, 
he came in one day with the news that he had joined 
the confraternity of the contrdbandistas^ had taken 
the oath of fellowship, and would henceforward spend 
but little of his time at home. His aunt, who had a 
great respect for the boy’s judgment, received the news 
calmly, and bowed her head, as broken-spirited people 
meekly do, before the decrees of fate. For her the 
period of possibilities was past, and that of the inevi- 
table had begun. Cathchaline was left to her, and she 
felt that what Providence gave was no doubt all that 
she had any right to expect. 

The girl, however, took the departure of her play- 
mate more to heart. It would, perhaps, not be true to 
say that she was herself fully conscious of the depth 
of her feelings in this matter; for whatever the in- 
fluence of this separation might be upon her life, it 
took some time to manifest itself, and there was no 
one near to hasten this manifestation by remarking 


120 


LA LOUVE 


upon it and thus forcing it upon her conscience. 
Nevertheless, it was not long before she realized that 
her world was no longer the same. Her activity, her 
natural, exuberant gladness in all that lived about her, 
her sympathies with her dumb playmates of but a few 
months before, had undergone a great change. She 
grew restless and at the same time silent and moody. 
She was constantly expectant of something that did 
not come, and vague longings began to fill her heart. 
She lived a very real, healthy life, and yet she lived it 
mechanically, as if her body had grown accustomed to 
its routine of daily duty, and performed it without the 
concurrence of her inner self, which was absorbed in 
dreams. Perhaps it would be more exact to say that 
she lived in a state of constant dreaminess ; for her 
dreams never took any distinct form, never came to 
any definite conclusion, and, in a word, never shaped 
themselves so distinctly that her mind could grasp 
them. Sometimes, after playing with a rabbit or a 
squirrel, she would, without apparent reason, burst 
into tears and, lying in the grass, sob as if her heart 
would break. These cries always had a soothing effect 
upon her, and for some days following she was more 
like her former self. But this happy state would not 
last. She would soon again grow restless and passion- 
ately long for something — she knew not what. 

Meanwhile Pascal was succeeding well in the haz- 
ardous life he had undertaken. At intervals he came 
to Gravemont to pass a day and a night, and while he 
was there it seemed as though the old state of things 
had come back and he had never been away. He 
rarely came without bringing some present from “ be- 


LA LOUVE 


121 


hind the mountains” for Cathchaline; and a present 
of money, sometimes more, sometimes less, for his 
aunt, who received it with a simple word of thanks, 
and smiled to herself as she put it away in an old stock- 
ing under her mattress. He was dressed in the pict- 
uresque cmitvahandistcC s costume, and when at night 
he sang to the women in the large, dark kitchen of the 
chateau, accompanying himself on his guitar, Cath- 
chaline thought him the handsomest boy in the world. 
And, indeed, when he stood in the bright fire-light with 
his left foot on the projecting andiron, his eyes fiashing 
with enthusiasm, and singing the spirited smuggler’s 
song, “ Yo que soy contrcibandista^'' it would have 
been diflScult not to acknowledge his manly beauty or 
to find fault with the symmetrical grace of his figure. 

On the other hand, he was astonished to find among 
the women whom he saw in the town and villages not 
one to compare with his little Cathchaline at home. 
When it first occurred to him to make this observation 
he had naively said to himself that he was accustomed 
to her features and liked them, and that, moreover, he 
had not seen many other women. But as time went 
on he recognized that his preference was justified. He 
had seen the great beauties of Spain publicly at the 
bull-fights in San Sebastian, and more privately when 
he went to their apartments to offer his smuggled 
gloves and ribbons. In Biarritz he had seen many 
beautiful women, French and Russian, American and 
English ; yet of all, Cathchaline was undoubtedly the 
fairest, and one evening he told her so, bluntly and 
simply. Mother Vispaly again smiled to herself as 
she bent her eyes more attentively upon her knitting. 


122 


LA LOUVE 


and Cathchaline blushed so deeply that she rose from 
her chair and turned away. Her pleasure was so in- 
tense that it gave her positive physical pain ; she 
gasped for breath and closed her eyes, which had sud- 
denly filled with tears. For a little while she sat silent, 
with her hands tightly pressed together in her lap; 
then she could bear it no longer, and ran out of the 
room up to the loft, where she threw herself down on 
the sweet-smelling hay and cried herself to sleep. He 
had not told her that he loved her, but she had sud- 
denly understood that she loved him, and for to-day 
that was sufficient. 

The next morning, as she was standing by the wall 
of the cow-yard, Pascal came out of the house and, in 
a careless way, threw his arm around her as he had 
often done before. But many things had changed 
since yesterday^s sunset, and this simple action now 
had the power to awaken emotions of which Cathcha- 
line had hitherto been ignorant ; so she quietly took 
his hand and removed it from its position on her waist 
so naturally that he scarcely noticed it, or that she at 
the same time moved a step away from him. When 
the time came for him to say good-by she was not to 
be found, but even this unusual event did not awaken 
any suspicion in Pascal’s simple mind. He kissed his 
aunt, shouldered his bundle, and, crying out the cus- 
tomary Adieusse la compagnieP^ strode away down 
the hill without seeing Cathchaline, who stood watch- 
ing him from one of the upper windows of the cha- 
teau. When he had disappeared she ran quickly down 
the crumbling staircase and took the road to Haspar- 
ren, where she bought a looking-glass from Moureu, 


LA LOUVE 


123 


the barber. ‘‘I wish my wife could see as pretty a 
face every time she looked in the glass,” the man said 
to himself as she left the shop ; “ but in this country 
the likes of them is only for bull-fighters and smug- 
glers. Similia similihusP 

Cathchaline was not yet out of town before she had 
torn the wrapping-paper and tried to steal a fugitive 
glance at herself in the glass. Behind the first stone 
wall she opened the package, and, laying the mirror 
down on the ground before her, she looked for a long 
time at the picture which it showed ; but what advice 
the mirror gave, I suppose only a woman could tell. 
Whatever it was, this advice was often repeated, and 
when Pascal returned a month later he could not but 
notice that the girl’s appearance was greatly improved. 

The exciting novelty of the contrabandista^s life, 
which at first had caused Pascal to forget his home, or 
at least to think but little of the two women compos- 
ing it, had worn off, and of late his pretty cousin had 
been much in his thoughts. The greater part of the 
weighing and considering, which among primitive peo- 
ple is, after all, but a simple addition or subtraction, 
had been concluded long ago ; and when at last his 
feelings asserted themselves, the question of marriage 
was, as far as he was concerned, practically settled : it 
remained for Cathchaline to say whether it was so for 
both of them. 

In this matter of propounding and answering the 
momentous question, country people undoubtedly en- 
joy a great advantage over the more cautious form-rid- 
den inhabitants of towns ; the scene is usually a simple 
one, and its action rapid and decisive. He asks, ‘‘ Will 


124 


LA LOUVE 


you marry me and she answers, ‘‘ I will ” or “ I won’t,” 
which statement is followed, as the case may be, either 
by kissing and blushes, or by a rapid exit and some 
fugitive pricks of conscience. In this particular case 
the answer produced not only the kissing and pretty 
blushes, which mother Yispaly, whose knitting had sud- 
denly become very troublesome, did not see, but a great 
deal of joy in which she heartily shared. 

Not many weeks after this memorable evening, Pas- 
cal came to spend the night, as of late he had more fre- 
quently found excuse for doing. He was in high spirits, 
and told the two fond women that, should this last 
expedition prove successful, he would clear enough to 
enable them to be married at once. Up to this time he 
had been more than usually fortunate, and, of course, 
his luck would not forsake him now. So they sat to- 
gether in the kitchen, as was their habit, and made 
happy plans until late in the night ; for Pascal was to 
leave them at sunrise, and they had much to arrange 
for the great day. 

The junta of the contrdbandistas was to take place 
two days later in the hall of Montalivet’s inn at Istu- 
ritz, and Pascal still haxi to cross over into Spain to 
complete his pack. With the exception of what he 
had given to mother Vispaly, he had risked his whole 
fortune on this one venture, and his bundle was full of 
good lace and fine silk embroideries. If, as he confi- 
dently expected, he passed the line safely, the disposal 
of tho articles was merely a matter of a few days, 
and the proceeds would allow him to rest for nearly a 
year, during which time he could do a little business in 
partnership with some of the active smugglers and per- 


LA LOUVE f 125 

haps only have to leave Cathchaline once in a long 
time. Isturitz, their famous rendezvous, was well over 
the border in France ; but the douaniers had not yet 
been able to organize their line in the wild mountain- 
ous country in which it lay, and where the inhabitants 
were even more hostile to the government than those 
of the villages which they already held. At this time, 
not long before the last Carlist war, the smugglers were 
very active and daring; a rumor had spread among 
them that the same taxes which existed in France were 
to be imposed over the border, and that the sale of 
tobacco was to become a government monopoly. If 
put into practice, these measures would prove a more 
effectual obstacle than any increase of the customs 
police. Moreover, some of the contrdbandistas had re- 
ceived from men connected with that department pri- 
vate offers of government posts : these had, of course, 
been made known to the confraternity, and it was felt 
that a new and unforeseen danger threatened it at the 
first serious break in the ranks. Besides, war was im- 
minent on the other side of the Pyrenees, and none 
could foretell what policy would be adopted at its 
close. The present was certainly the golden time, and, 
as they remembered that the morrow might prove to 
be only a bald- opportunity, they endeavored to live up 
to the maxim of not postponing until then what could 
be attended to at once. 

When Pascal entered the inn, the hall was still emp- 
ty. He tied his long-haired white dog to one of the 
rings fixed for that purpose in the wall of the court- 
yard, and, feeling tired, he lay down on one of the long 
benches that followed the tables around the room, and 


126 


LA LOUVE 


went to sleep. One by one the contrdbandistas came 
in and deposited their bales along the walls. Nearly all 
called for bread and cheese and a jug of wine, and ate 
rapidly, mostly in silence ; then lighted a cigarette or a 
small -bowled clay pipe, filled with very rank home- 
grown tobacco. Altogether there were about seventy 
men in the room, some mere boys, while a few had 
white hair and moustaches ; but all wore the blue herret^ 
short black jacket and bright-red sash ; each had the 
thong of a maquila passed round his wrist, and a knife 
in his belt. As a rule, they were fine, muscular-looking 
men, with bright black eyes, a laughing mouth, and a 
bold, reckless, good-natured expression that seemed out * 
of place in the gloomy hall, lighted only in the centre by 
some tallow dips stuck in empty bottles. Those who 
talked at all spoke in a subdued voice ; and even these 
whispered conversations ceased suddenly as old Monta- 
livet came forward and placed an earthen dish between 
the lights in the middle of the table. Some of the older 
men gathered around him, while the rest placed them- 
selves on his left. When he saw that they were all 
ready, he shook the dice-box which he held in his hand 
and threw — seven. That was the fighting number. 

The smugglers passed before him in single file, and 
each threw the dice in turn, then walked over to the 
right side of the table, or, if he had thrown a seven, re- 
mained standing by the fireplace, behind the innkeeper. 
Meanwhile, Pascal was still asleep on his bench. When 
his turn came they woke him, and he came forward 
with his eyes half open. The dice rolled up — three, 
four. “ What was the number to-night he asked, as 
he put them back in the box. 


LA LOUVE 


127 


“ Seven,” answered Montalivet ; “ you have it. Has 
every one thrown ?” he added, raising his voice ; then, 
as he received no answer, he turned to the men standing 
behind him and said : “ Boys, it is time to get ready.” 

There were five besides Pascal ; so six carbines and 
dummy bales were brought in from the blacksmith’s 
shop next door, while the appointed men placed their 
packs on the table to be divided up among the rest. 
Their duty was to go ahead first with their dogs, and, 
if possible, to concentrate the line of douaniers in one 
spot; while they were fighting, the rest could spread 
out rapidly and pass across into the safe country be- 
yond. When they reached Bayonne, the things be- 
longing to the men of the forlorn hope were deposited 
in some safe place, where, if they returned, they could 
claim them ; if they did not return, and it was ascer- 
tained that they had been killed, their property was sold 
by their comrades, and the proceeds sent to the families 
of the victims. Sometimes not a shot was fired and 
all passed the line safely ; but again at others, desperate 
encounters took place between the soldiers and the con- 
trabandistas^ and then never more than half, seldom 
more than a third, and sometimes none, contrived to es- 
cape. It was extremely rare that a smuggler was made 
a prisoner ; he never surrendered, and when any was 
taken it was because he was too severely wounded to 
resist any longer. In this war the dogs played a prom- 
inent part, each one being considered equal to a man. 
The smugglers trained their animals never to bark and 
always to keep close to their masters ; their opponents, 
on the contrary, taught their dogs to scour the country 
and give voice constantly when on a hot trail. 


128 


LA LOUVE 


When all was ready, the six men held a rapid con- 
sultation with Montalivet and shook hands among 
themselves. Then they passed down the line of their 
comrades, shook each silently by the hand, and, after 
untying their dogs, struck out cautiously in the ap- 
pointed direction. 

On the day before they^n^a, Cathchaline for the first 
time felt anxious about Pascal. Heretofore she had 
listened to his stories as one listens to stories of advent- 
ure and danger which do not concern either ourselves 
or any one we know; she had never been convinced 
of the reality of Pascal’s life as a smuggler, and be- 
ing frightened now for the first time, her anxiety was 
the deeper for its suddenness. She shuddered at the 
thought of what might happen, and shook her head as 
if she could thus throw off the doubts which beset her. 
But in spite of her efforts she could think only of the 
danger to which he was exposed, and finally she broke 
down and cried hysterically. Long before dark she 
had persuaded herself that something had already 
really happened, and the light of her life seemed to 
have gone out. The slightest noise made her start; 
and, although she knew that the smugglers did not 
leave Isturitz before ten or eleven, the slamming of a 
door or of a loose shutter, which she magnified into 
the report of a gun-shot, made her clasp her hands in 
an agony of terror. At last she could bear it no longer, 
and, after kissing her unsuspecting mother, she went 
out, called her dog, and ran towards the pass near which 
Pascal had told her that they would probably cross the 
line. When she had reached the place, she crouched 
down under a bush, holding her dog by the collar, and 


LA LOUVE 


129 


waited. In her anxiety it was a great consolation to 
feel the warm, breathing thing near her, and when her 
distress became unbearable, to press its shaggy head 
against her breast and kiss it. At times even, forget- 
ting where she was, she spoke to it as if it were Pascal, 
and it soothed her to bury her face in its soft coat, and 
fancy that she was in her lover’s arms ; or she would 
raise her eyes to the dark sky overhead, and mutely 
pray for him, and, possibly unconsciously, for herself 
also ; for, after all, she was very human, felt her own 
weakness, and was in sore need of help. 

In the meantime the sky had clouded over, and 
greenish flashes of lightning behind the Pyrenees an- 
nounced a storm. A few heavy drops fell, and ceased 
again as the thunder began to roll with a mufiied sound 
in the distance. At every rumble Cathchaline started 
forward and listened for a moment, half dreading, and 
yet at the same time hoping, that it might be a gun- 
shot. Her suspense was becoming intolerable, and it 
seemed to her that even the worst news would be pref- 
erable to this uncertainty. The cold drops that fell 
from the overhanging branches on to her neck and 
trickled down her back made her shiver, and for a mo- 
ment the sensation distracted her. Without under- 
standing why she did so, she picked up a sharp stone 
and pressed its ragged edge into her foot; and when 
the silence became too deep she imitated the cries of 
night-birds or the dismal howling of the mountain 
wolf, smiling, in spite of her anxiety, at the excellence 
of her imitation. Then she listened again more eager- 
ly than before, fearful that during the momentary dis- 
traction some important noise had escaped her atteu- 
9 


130 


LA LOUVE 


tion ; and when she could perceive nothing but the 
myriads of infinitesimal sounds that make the silence 
of night, she took the dog’s head in her hands, and 
cried, in a passionate, pathetic voice, “ Pascal ! O Pas- 
cal !” while the fond animal licked her face as if he 
understood and pitied her. 

Meanwhile the minutes were slowly passing away as 
they always do, and with every moment the lightning 
became more vivid, the flashes more frequent, and the 
roll of the thunder sharper. Suddenly the dog stif- 
fened itself on its legs with a low growl, and, tearing 
itself from her grasp, bounded away into the darkness. 
Cathchaline rose and held her breath ; a yellow light, 
followed by a sharp report, flared among the bushes 
before her, and she sprang forward. Then came more 
shots, and in the silence between them she heard the 
angry gasping of the dogs. A man spoke a few quick 
words, and immediately a bright Are of twigs, satu- 
rated with rosin, sprang up in the clearing, where 
Pascal with two of the contraha'ndistaSj taken by sur- 
prise, were brilliantly illuminated, while the douaniers 
knelt together in comparative darkness. A few steps 
ahead of his men the officer stood by himself, hold- 
ing his sword loosely in his left hand, and with a pis- 
tol in the other taking a slow aim at the smuggler. 
With a wild, unearthly cry that startled the men, the 
girl bounded past them, seized the officer’s sword, and 
struck him with all her remaining strength — but too 
late, for Pascal had fallen. 

When Cathchaline regained her senses, a number of 
smugglers had gathered around their fallen comrade ; 
she pushed them rudely aside, and, kneeling down, she 


LA LOUVE 


131 


gently lifted him in her arms and rested his drooping 
head against her breast. Without looking at his 
wound, she instinctively felt that it was fatal, and that 
her lover was dead. She could neither speak nor weep, 
and it seemed to her as if some vital cord had suddenly 
given way within her — she hesitated a moment, and 
kissed his lips mechanically, as if obeying the last im- 
pulse of her departed will ; then she let him fall back 
heavily, passed her hand over her eyes as if she had 
been asleep, and walked away in the direction of 
Gravemont. 

For several years nothing was seen of her in the sur- 
rounding country. During this time the story was cir- 
culated that the young officer, who was of good family, 
and the manner of whose death was consequently inves- 
tigated into, had been killed by some wild animal. His 
men, seized with a sudden panic, had run away when 
they heard her cry, which they compared to the howl of 
a she-wolf, and as she had passed through the lighted 
space so quickly, they only remembered seeing her 
large dog bounding after her. Some years later, when 
the dreaded reforms had been put into practice, and 
smuggling, as it was once understood, had become a 
thing of the past, one of Pascal’s contrdbandistas, who 
had turned douanier^ recognized the girl, and called 
her La louve, the “ she-wolf ” — and the name had clung 
to her. 

Now, every morning during the sardine season, you 
will see her leave a little cottage in the fishermen’s 
quarter of Ciboure, which, you know, is opposite to 
Saint- Jean-de-Luz, and go down to the jetty where the 
boats land and the women stand waiting for their has- 


132 


LA LOUVE 


ket-load of fish. Here she will patiently bide her turn ; 
then, without having spoken a word, will swing her 
bakket on to her head and dash away for Biarritz. 

They say that now she is but lialf-witted, and, poor 
thing! that may be true; but she is kind, patient, and 
meek ; she hurts nobody, and her love for dumb ani- 
mals has survived the loss of her mind, as you will see 
from the half-pitying, tender way in w’hich she touches 
even her dead fish. When she has sold them all, she 
saunters listlessly back to Saint- Jean -de-Luz, sometimes 
by the road and sometimes by the deserted beach. 
And if 3'ou follow, you may see her stop to liberate a 
struggling fly, or, leaning over some half- washed rock, 
scrape out a passage in the sand for the shrimps and 
little fish whose life has been imperilled by some care- 
less, mighty sweep of the tide. When the little work 
of compassion is done and the ungrateful prisoners 
have disappeared, you will see her rise and continue 
her road, singing, in a low voice to herself, the first 
words of Pascal’s favorite song, “ Yo que soy contror 
handistaP Perhaps in that poor brain the recollec- 
tions of the happy days at Gravemont are as vivid to- 
day as they were years ago — and yet who knows ? She 
speaks to no one, and confesses her thoughts not even 
to the priest. To this day she remains the most beauti- 
ful creature on the coast, and of this she is as uncon- 
scious as the sun’s rays, that alone have the privilege of 
kissing her full red lips and bringing a smile into her 
large soft eyes. 


THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK 




“THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK” 



'IIE gray of dawn was beginning to brighten with 


roseate flashes of light as Joseph Bell unhooked 
the door of his adobe dwelling and stepped out on 
to the little veranda overlooking the plateau of the 
Cetera mine, where he sat down wearily on the brick 
coping. He had passed an anxious, sleepless night, 
and his features wore an expression of listlessness and 
disappointment which showed that he was in trouble. 
For a few minutes he sat quiet with his head in his 
hands ; then, springing nervously to his feet, like a 
man who had come to a sudden decision, he struck 
the signal-gong nailed against one of the pillars of the 
porch, lighted a cigar, and, blowing the smoke of the 
first whiffs far away, said aloud : 

“ Well it’s got to stop ; and, what’s more, it is going 
to stop to-day. I suppose I had better see Garcia 
about it first,” he added, meditatively, after a few 
puffs. “ These Mexicans know their country better 
than do we Gringos, with all our conceit and mis- 
taken contempt for the genus Greaser. Ah! Torri- 
bio, hu^nos dias^'^ he went on, as his mozo^ draped in a 
blue serajpe^ walked up, jingling the little bells on his 
spurs. 

Buenos dias^ Don Pepe ! You passed a good 


136 


THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK 


night?” the boy cried out in answer. “You struck 
the gong?” 

“Yes. We ar^ going to Alamos. Let Feliz get 
ready. I’ll take him along, too. And tell the cap- 
tain I wish to see him here at once. Be quick now, 
and see that Teresa brings the coffee. And, by the 
way, I’ll take my carbine this morning.” 

When the boy had disappeared. Bell took down his 
spurs and his revolver from a nail on the wall, and 
buckled them on leisurely ; then he sat down again 
and waited. The day’s work was decided upon, and 
he could afford to thrust his cares aside ; for, now that 
he was about to grapple with them materiall3% they 
seemed much less formidable than during the long 
hours of the night, when he was endeavoring to make 
up his mind as to what really was his dut3^ The 
morning air was fresh and cool, his cigar was good, 
and his coffee deliciously aromatic, so why not enjoy 
the sensuous pleasure of the moment? Life in Sono- 
ra offers none but the most material enjoyments, and 
those not so often as to dull the appetite for comfort ; 
as for disagreeable duties, they form the major part of 
the day’s routine, and amply sufficient unto each day 
is that part thereof. The cactus bears a thousand times 
a thousand thorns that last the year round, and but a 
handful of mildly flavored fruit that ripens once in 
May ; so let the May-time be a holiday ! 

While he was half unconsciously trying to convince 
himself that this very practical, if not very ennobling, 
philosophy was the best. Bell was aroused from his rev- 
erie by the approach of big Jack Corbis, the captain of 
the mine. 


“THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK 


137 


“ Good-morning, Mr. Bell,” he cried out, stopping a 
few feet away from his boss and dropping the head of 
a pick which he carried on his shoulder, more as a 
badge of his office than for the purpose of applying it 
to any practical use. “You be up kind o’ early this 
mornin’, sorr. Hot day, too, it’s meanin’ to be, sure 
’nough !” he added, wiping his forehead with the back 
of his wrist and looking up at the pink-and-gray rip- 
ples of cloud in the sky. Then, as if suddenly recol- 
lecting something, he said in an indifferent tone: “Toe- 
ribyoe let on as how you was wantin’ to see me here, 
Mr. Bell. C’n I help ye any ?” 

There was in his tone, as usual when he spoke to the 
superintendent, a suggestion of patronizing kindness 
or condescensiop, and Bell naturally resented it ; for 
Jack’s whole manner seemed to imply, “ I know ex- 
actly what is to be done, but it is a part of my duty to 
come up and ask you, just as if I didn’t ; so here I am 
to fulfil this little formality before going to work in 
my own way ; but there’s no hurry.” And he empha- 
sized this by jerking a tobacco-pouch from his hip- 
pocket and leisurely filling his pipe. 

Bell half smiled, half frowned, as he read the man’s 
thoughts, fiattered by the ease with which he did so, 
yet at the same time displeased at his own implied 
inferiority. “Hot merely implied, though,” he was 
obliged to own to himself as he looked at Jack’s 
stalwart figure and brawny arms. “ As an animal he 
is worth five of me, and I suppose that down here a 
man should be gauged rather more than less by his 
physical points. Then, too, he has had twenty years’ 
experience below ground, and I have had less than 


138 


THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK 


one; he will intuitively solve nine problems out of 
ten, while I have to puzzle over and work them out 
on paper, without even then being sure that I am 
right. Yet he earns four dollars a day to my fifteen, 
and has to take his orders from me — ‘ that Yank from 
New York ’ — who but a few months ago was no more 
than a stud, rerum met. et mont. If I were in his 
place I should resent it less good-naturedly than Jack 
does, I am sure. Taking it all in all, I think he be- 
haves remarkably well. To be sure, there’s the tenth 
problem — ” his amour proj>re suggested, and the 
consciousness of his superiority returned to him at 
once. 

“ I don’t know that you can help me. Jack,” he an- 
swered, quietly, “ beyond carrying out, what orders I 
give you. I am going into town this morning, and 
shall not be back before sunset, so we must postpone 
surveying the old socahon until to-morrow. You can 
put on two extra gangs in the Salon Grande, and run 
the rest as usual. At five I want you to blow the 
whistle and send all the men — mind you, all of them 
—up to the compressor-room. I shall have something 
to say to you. That’s all for this morning.” 

The boys had come up with the mules before Bell 
concluded, and without waiting for an answer he 
vaulted into the saddle. As he rode away he was 
conscious of a feeling of relief at not having to listen 
to Jack’s reply, and at the same time of a certain 
sense of shame at his momentary cowardice. “ Heigh- 
ho!” he said to himself, “this playing at all or nothing 
requires more nerve than I am sure of being able to 
count upon ; and how different this is from the pretty 


“THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK” 130 

chess -play we read of in books ! It is no longer a 
moving of a wooden or an ivory king — or — at least the 
king now is myself. How shall I come out this even- 
ing? Quien sabeV'* And, as in life some innocent 
victim must always suffer for the disturbed vibrations 
of our temper, Bell’s mule was suddenly and rather 
undeservedly reminded that her rider was a “ caballero 
with silver spurs.” 

Meanwhile Jack Corbis stood on the same spot, hold- 
ing his half-closed hands over the bowl of his yet un- 
lighted pipe, with a half- admiring, half -doubtful ex- 
pression on his handsome cavalier’s face. “ Well — I’ll 
be tchee-war- war’d !” he said, finally and conclusively, 
as he drew a match across the rear of his overalls. 
‘‘ The young un said that as if he really was a-goin’ to 
fight the crowd on us — Gringos an’ Cornishmen an’ 
Greasers an’ Injuns — jest as we stand. Wal ! I doan’ 
know but I like that ; come now, hang me if I doan’t. 
We’ll make a miner of that boy some day, sure’s taxes. 
He can’t have all the men, mind ye, though. There’s 
that job down to the Bochin cross-cut’s got to be fixed 
to-night. All right, now. Master Bell ; we’ll give you 
a show, or my name ain’t Jack Corbis, nor never was !” 
And, shouldering his pick, the captain of the mine 
walked away with a heavy tread towards the shaft, 
grumbling to himself between the puffs of his pipe. 

By the time Bell had reached the village at the foot 
of the Cetera range he had regained his usual compos- 
ure and self-confidence. Like most intelligent men 
of a quick, nervous temper, who see the dozen differ- 
ent sides of a question at the same time, he was slow 
to make up his mind on matters of importance ; when, 


140 


THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK 


however, that result had been accomplished, he never 
wavered, but threw his whole energy into the attempt 
to reach his end. He was still too young to be ham- 
pered by the record of partial or doubtful successes, 
for whatever success he had achieved in life was still 
too recent to have been diminished by the perspective 
of time ; and without being exactly conceited, he was 
yet keenly appreciative of his own talents. Moreover, 
lie knew from experience that the day before the or- 
deal the nerves are more sensitive to its imaginary for- 
midableness than on the day itself when the struggle 
has begun. He also felt that he was fighting for no 
more than his right, and had not read a sufiScient num- 
ber of Russian novels to know that if might is right, 
right is not always might. So that, on the whole, he 
felt tolerably confident of success. 

When, two months before, he had come down to 
Mexico to take charge of the Cotera property, this had 
been handed over to him by his predecessor, a middle- 
aged, uneducated Cornishman, who had conceived an 
immediate and violent dislike to the refined, well-read 
young American. In his farewell speech to the men 
he had found it expedient, after expressing his satisfac- 
tion at the efficient way in which they had served him, 
to regret that “that Yank from New York” should 
have been sent down to boss them, and to hope that 
under such a questionable leadership they might not 
become demoralized. Bell, as it happened, did not 
come from New York ; but he had been sent down 
from there by the office, and in Mr. Harris’s ingenu- 
ous mind all Yankees hailed from either New York 
or San Francisco, according as they belonged East or 


“THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK” 141 

West. Moreover, the lurking contempt of the great 
West for the daily increasing “effeteness” of the At- 
lantic slope was satisfied in the summary description 
of the young man’s “size,” as was also the*Cornish- 
man’s dislike of the American. In such remote com- 
munities as this mining-camp, where the principles of 
right and wrong are variable and determined by the 
caprice of the moment, the jingle of a word often out- 
weighs its sense. So in this case, without stopping to 
reflect, the men, pleased by the phrase “that Yank 
from New York,” adopted it as a characteristic defini- 
tion of their leader. Half unconsciously, to be sure, 
but none the less absolutely, the Yankees, and then the 
Cornishmen, began to talk deprecatingly of the new 
boss ; before long the Mexican employees discovered 
their superiority ; and as nothing is more contagious 
than demoralization, the very Indian miners, for the 
first time in the recollection of their existence, realized 
that their views should be represented and receive due 
consideration. Naturally enough, these different par- 
ties interfered with one another, and disorder ensued. 
Bell was sufficiently well aware of the fact that things 
were going wrong ; but being a young and inexperi- 
enced man in a new countr}^, the language of which 
he spoke as yet but indifferently, he had only recently 
understood the real cause of the trouble. “ Gangrene 
— amputation,” he said to himself. “ That is clear 
enough ; but where shall we amputate, and how ?” 
These questions had kept him awake all night, and, as 
he rode under the great spreading poplars along the 
bed of the arroyo^ he wondered whether the operation 
would prove successful. The dismissal of the Mexican 


142 “THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK” 

officers, which he had resolved to accomplish that very 
day, was the most difficult problem to solve without 
exciting such personal animosities as might lead to 
bloodshed, and it was chiefly on this point that he was 
going to ask Garcia’s advice. 

When Bell entered the office, Don Jose-Maria rose 
from his desk and greeted him warmly ; then he led 
him across the orange-planted court-yard into his pri- 
vate room. ‘‘Deign to enter this, your own house, 
Seilor Bell, and allow me to ask permission to absent 
myself a few moments — yes? Meanwhile you will 
throw off the heat of the sun. I send some refresh- 
ment at once.” 

Within a few minutes he returned, drew up his 
chair, and, crossing his hands over his waistcoat, said, 
ill his low, caressing voice, “ Well, Don Jose, what can 
1 do to serve you to-day ?” 

Bell told him the story in detail, wondering the 
while whether this polite little man, with features of 
feminine delicacy and beauty, and soft dark eyes, could 
really be the same Garcia whose bravery and ferocity 
had become legendary in the district. It seemed im- 
possible; and yet at times, notwithstanding the pleasant 
expression of his smile, a hard, brilliant glitter, like 
that of a snake’s, would for a moment come into his 
eyes. He listened attentively without moving or inter- 
rupting the speaker until Bell asked him what he 
should do under the circumstances. 

“ You must do what is right,” he answered, with a 
slight shrug of the shoulders and gently tapping his 
thumbs together. 

“Yes, Don Jose-Maria; but what is right?” 


“THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK” 143 

Garcia shrugged his shoulders again more energet- 
ically as he replied: ‘‘Every man has his own appre- 
ciation of what is right, and in your position your 
honest decision will be the best. You have made up 
your mind as to what you have to do; now do it. 
That is the best advice I can give you. I would sug- 
gest, however, that in the case of the Mexicans, you 
allow them to resign instead of dismissing them ; and, 
whatever the provocation may be, dorCt shoot. Some 
relative or other is sure to spot you in time. I could 
have him caught and sent — for the matter of that, 
along with his whole family — up to the campo santo. 
But what satisfaction would you derive from that if 
you were also in the graveyard? Believe me, Don 
Jose, don’t shoot. It is sometimes worth while to con- 
trol one’s most legitimate desires. How come in to 
dinner, and stay here for the siesta before riding back 
to the mine. The sun must be hot on the road to-day, 
is it not ?” 

They went out, and as they walked slowly across the 
cool patio towards the dining-room, Don Jose-Maria 
asked, in a casual way, “ You live in New York when 
you are at home ?” 

Bell laughed aloud, and tore a sheet out of his note- 
book. “In case anything should happen to me,” he 
answered, writing down the direction, “ you can tele- 
graph to this address. But I don’t think it will be 
necessary.” 

“ Quien sdbe the other replied, seriously, and 
pitching his voice in a high key. “Things develop 
more rapidly here than in the North. But, Don Jose, 
allow me to say a word to my brother, who is standing 


144 


THAT YANK FROM KEW YORK 


under the portico, and I am with you in ten minutes.” 
When Bell was out of ear-shot, Garcia beckoned to his 
brother, the doctor, and after a short “good-day,” he 
said to him: “Do not go out to-night, Alfonso, and 
keep a couple of mules saddled after seven. You may 
be wanted at the Cotera; but say nothing about it, 
please.” Then he followed his guest into the dining- 
room. 

It was nearly four o’clock when, having shaken hands 
for the last time with Don Jose-Maria, Bell turned 
his face homeward. The great heat of the day was 
past, and a gentle breeze blew through the silvery shiv- 
ering foliage of the poplars, and lifted the feathery 
branches of the sdbmasy that undulated lazily, like deli- 
cate sea-weed floating back and forth at each wave-lap. 
The sun was low, and long blue shadows lay across the 
red soil of the road. In the distance the mountain- 
tops stood out in strong blue-and-purple dashes against 
the fainter whitish blue of the sky, while the nearer 
rugged peaks of barren rock, striped with red iron 
lines, shone boldly above the slight mist that was be- 
ginning to form at their base. The wide plain, stud- 
ded with round, full-topped trees, and surrounded by 
the fantastically shaped hills, made a picture of rare 
coloring and beauty ; yet like all tropical scenery, 
either because of its lack of animal life or of associ- 
ation with men, it produced a sad impression on the 
mind, that could never forget its isolation and unim- 
portance in this vast, silent desert. 

On this afternoon the impression of intense sadness 
which Bell could not control may, to a certain extent, 
have been due to other causes; for, as he rode along 


“THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK” 145 

towards what the irony of circumstance temporarily 
obliged him to call “ home,” he distinctly recalled his 
feelings on the day when, but a few weeks before, he 
had travelled this same road on his arrival, buoyed up 
by the interest of a first visit and by visions of unprec- 
edented success for the mine during his administra- 
tion. And these expectations had come to what? 
Whether attributed to his fault or to his misfortune, 
the result remained the same ; he had no similar pre- 
vious experience on which to fall back, and his self- 
conceit was not so sturdy as to absolve him in his own 
judgment of any unintentional errors. “ Que diahle 
allax-je done faire dans cette gaUre he said, aloud, 
and with a bitter laugh. “ Well, for better for worse, 
I took Dame Cetera; let us see what manner of wel- 
come the shrew bids me to-night — the very night of 
her taming, too, or I am much mistaken.” And so 
saying he whipped hi® mule with the reins and gal- 
loped up to his oflSce at the mine just as the whistle 
blew for the men to assemble. 

For perhaps half an hour Bell paced his brick fioor 
composing, or rather attempting to compose, his speech ; 
but he had barely begun to make some progress when 
his boy Torribio, dispensing with the formality of a 
knock at the door, walked into the room to say that 
the men were waiting. ‘‘I suppose Feliz and I had 
better each take a lantern, Don Pepe? No? It is 
half dark already in there ; and — I told Feliz to bring 
his carbine; that will make three with yours and 
mine.” 

Bell merely nodded assent, and told the boy to go 
on ahead. At the last moment, moved by some sud- 
10 


146 “THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK” 

den impulse, be threw down his gun and unbuckled 
his revolver. “ They would be of no use to me, any 
way,” he reasoned, as he walked towards the com- 
pressor-house, “and I shall be all the stronger for be- 
ing unarmed. At any rate, it is the best way of fol- 
lowing Jose-Maria’s advice.” 

As he entered the large room and motioned to the 
engineer to shut off steam there was a sudden silence, 
which seemed the more profound for the noisy talking 
that had preceded it ; and the men, who had formed 
themselves in different groups, all turned curiously 
towards him. Bell was perfectly calm, but, as he him- 
self felt it, unnaturally so ; it seemed to him now that 
there was little or nothing to say, and, for a moment, 
the uncomfortable suspicion flashed through his mind 
that the wrongs of which he was about to complain be- 
gan and ended in his own imagination. To gain time 
he looked around, as if to see that all hands were pres- 
ent. Guarding the closed door behind him stood his 
two mozos^ leaning on their carbines, and in front of 
each was a large reflector lantern, throwing a strong 
light on Bell, who, in his duck clothes, stood out as 
the most prominent flgure in the room. On his right 
the white miners were drawn up in line, and on the 
left the mill hands, a quiet-looking set of men. Oppo- 
site, and just in front of the bob of the big pump that 
swung back and forth like a ponderous pendulum, the 
Mexican employees formed a little group by them- 
selves, their sallow complexions and dark hair contrast- 
ing strongly with the ruddy-faced, light-bearded Grin- 
gos. In the second rank behind, the native miners 
and Indians were packed closely, their bronze-brown 


TUAT YANK FROM NEW YORK 


14Y 


skins scarcely lightening the shadow that enveloped 
them, and their half-closed, glittering eyes, that were 
all fixed on the boss, gleaming like fire-flies on a dark 
night. Through the window opposite to him Bell 
could barely see the light of the lantern on the gal- 
lows over the shaft burning quietly, and he tried to 
fancy that it was like a star close at hand. 

As he was about to make an effort to say something 
— what, he did not then know — one of the small boys 
who were crowded together outside the window lost 
his hold and tumbled into the room with a loud cry 
of dismay, that was answered by a yell from the assem- 
bly. This little incident seemed to break the ice : Bell 
understood it, and every man there felt it; a cloud of 
good humor seemed to have burst over their heads, 
and a smile lurked in the corners of their mouths and 
eyes. “Now is my time,” he said to himself, and 
stepped forward, trembling a little, but on the whole 
self-possessed and calm. 

“ Boys,” he began, in rather a loud voice, that else- 
where he would scarcely have recognized as his own, 
“ I haven’t got much to say to you, but I wish you to 
understand every word that I do say. For the last 
two months — in fact, ever since Mr. Harris left us — 
you seem to have got hold of the idea that there was 
no boss in this camp. Well, perhaps there wasn’t; 
perhaps you thought that a ‘ Yank from New York ’ 
was too green to stand over you, and maybe you were 
right. Now, boys, I don’t think you gave me a fair 
show. Why didn’t you come to me like men, and say 
straight out what you had to say, instead of working 
behind my back to make trouble? Fifty to one, too! 


148 “THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK” 

When I knew that I was right I told you what you 
were to do; and when I was in doubt I asked your 
advice before deciding what was best. You know that 
is the truth I am telling you. Well, boys, you’ve got 
a boss now — got him to-night — and I am the man. If 
there’s any one here who doesn’t like it, he can walk 
straight out of that door, right now, and come for his 
time to-morrow.” 

Bell paused a moment, and stepped aside waiting 
for an answer; but beyond a volley of oaths, mainly 
meant to be commendatory, none was forthcoming. 
He had only an indistinct recollection of the words he 
had used, but he was distinctly conscious of having 
won the fight. The worst was over: he had asserted 
himself, and they had understood that he was right ; 
now he could proceed with his duties, feeling that the 
better element in the camp was at his back. 

When he came forward again his words had already 
been translated to the natives, and all bent over eagerly 
to hear what he was going to say next. 

“ I am sorry,” he began, in a lower voice, and hesi- 
tatingly — “I am sorry that my first duty should be 
such a disagreeable one ; but I don’t see any way of 
avoiding it. I have noticed that there is a good deal 
— in fact, too much — ill-feeling between Mexicans and 
white men here at the Cotera. As yet I cannot say 
who is wrong or who is right. So to-night I mean to 
have both sides state their grievances openly, and the 
facts shall decide. Senor Ponce de Leon, will you do 
me the favor to step forward ?” 

A giant cartridge exploding in the centre of the 
Mexican group could not have produced a greater com- 


“THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK” 


149 


motion than did these few words. For a moment all 
talked at once, gesticulating wildly and in the greatest 
confusion, while the foreigners looked at one another 
and winked, much amused at this sudden turn of af- 
fairs. Finally, after a short debate, the oldest of the 
Mexicans advanced towards Bell and cried, angrily : 

“ Don Jose ! you do not know the customs of this 
our country. We are cahalleros^ senor, and not to be 
called to account. We cannot submit to be ranked 
with laborers and treated as such ; and I have the hon- 
or, in the name of my colleagues here, and also, senor, 
in my own, of ofiEering you our resignation.” 

He bowed low, with an outward, horizontal sweep 
of his arm, and was just stepping back to join his com- 
rades, when, clear and distinct, the cry of “ Fire !” rang 
out in the still night air, and one of the native miners 
ran in breathless. 

“ Don Jose,” he gasped, ‘‘ the roof where they were 
retimbering in the Bochin cross-cut has come down, 
and the timbermeu, Don Juan and Don Eduardo, got 
caught under the rock that fell. I had gone back a 
moment before, and so escaped most of the dirt ; but 
even before I cleared myself the wood was on fire, and 
the big supply pile is just on this side of the cross-cut. 
Mary most holy, save the mine !” 

“ Jack Corbis !” 

“ Yes — sir !” 

“Are there any air-pipes in that cross-cut? Yes? 
Then drive the compressor till she bursts. Pick out 
three meh for the first gang with you and myself — 
axes and picks — and four for the next. That will do. 
Now come — hurry !” 


150 


THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK 


A minute later they stood on the platform of the 
open cage, silent but resolute. From below the smoke 
was beginning to rise, thick and black. In the shaft 
itself it rolled up slowly, boiled up in round, cushioned 
clouds, writhing, advancing, and apparently receding 
again until it reached the collar and shot upward swift- 
ly, climbing the tall gallows and spreading evenly and 
slowly into a thick, undulating canopy of a pasty con- 
sistency that lay like a circular blot against the sky. 
Bell looked up overhead for the lantern — his star — 
and it seemed to him that it was burning, dimly but 
steadily. Once more he turned to Corbis and asked : 

“ Candles 

“ Yes, sir 

“ Matches 

“ Yes, sir. All ready, sir !” 

“ Lower away !” 

The gong sounded sharply — ding, ding, ding. Bu- 
eno came back from the engine-house, and they were 
gone. 

At the third level the cage stopped, and they got 
out to light their candles. The main body of the 
smoke was creeping along the roof of the drift, but 
for a foot above the car-track the air was tolerably 
clear ; so they lay down on their sides, holding their 
candles in one hand before them, and crawled along 
in the ooze of the floor towards the fire. Their prog- 
ress was necessarily slow, and for a few minutes noth- 
ing was heard but the grunting and panting of the 
men and the more distant crackling of the^ burning 
wood. Then they reached the cross-cut, and a shower 
of sparks fell over them. The heat became intense. 


“THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK 


151 


and at last they were obliged to halt. It looked here 
as if their task were a hopeless one, yet not one of 
them thought of going back. 

“ There ought to be a little water in the unfinished 
winze close by here, sir,” Corbis called out, coughing 
in the smoke. “ If we c’n only reach it, I think we c’n 
push through. Leastways we c’n try. ’Tain’t more ’n 
five or six fathom to your right, Mr. Bell.” 

“ Come along, then, boys !” Bell cried out, cheerily ; 
and the strange little procession of five crept on slow- 
ly, with lowered heads. To them, no doubt, those 
thirty feet seemed longer than many a weary mile 
under the hot sun above ground ; probably nothing 
but the feeling of companionship enabled them to 
reach together the little hole, which not one of them 
could have reached alone ; and silently they let them- 
selves down into the dirty, greasy water, above which 
the air was fairly free from smoke. 

As Bell glanced at the black-streaked faces of his 
four companions emerging from the metallic-looking 
surface of the water, he could not help smiling at their 
ridiculous appearance. “ Well,” he thought, as he 
turned from the brightly illuminated drift, where a 
few yards away a couple of men were probably dying 
in agony, to the dark hole in which he and his four 
miners were closely wedged, “ I suppose that all through 
life there is a smile to every tear.” Then turning to 
Corbis : “ Jack,” he said, “ send one of the men back 
to the station, and let the next gang hurry along. They 
want to cut a few sets in the drift and plaster the ones 
nearest the fire with mud. I am going to make a dash 
ahead, and — if I don’t answer your call when you have 


152 “THAT YANK FROM NEVY YORK” 

counted a hundred, you’ll have to come in after me. 
Here goes !” 

He clambered out of the hole, and, raising one arm 
to protect his face, he plunged into the flames ; but he 
had taken only a few steps when his foot struck some- 
thing soft on the ground, and he fell forward over the 
prostrate body of a man. He was partly stunned by 
the blow, but this rather helped him, for the bite of 
the fire seemed less sharp, and a moment later he stag- 
gered out under his burden. It was Ned Bowles, but 
whether alive or dead they could not tell ; he was 
bleeding from several wounds, and badly burned. 
“ Take him up carefully, bo^s,” Bell cried, but hurry. 
Never mind the smoke this time ; get him out sharp, 
and send some more men to take your place. Now, 
Jack,” he went on, as the others vanished in the smoke, 
“it’s your turn. Yell to me if you want help, and 
good luck to you. Jack, old man. I’ll have to cool 
ofl a spell in the water here.” 

He slid down again into the hole and rested his 
head on his hands. For a little while he seemed to 
have lost his power of thought, and even for a moment 
forgot where he was. In the cool water he experienced 
a delicious sensation of relief that made him shiver all 
over, not unpleasantly ; then an intense drowsiness 
came over him. He was on the verge of losing con- 
sciousness when, with a loud bellow of pain. Jack 
rushed out of the fire and slipped into the water be- 
side him. 

“John Vinton’s in there and alive, Mr. Bell,” he 
shrieked, as soon as he had sufficiently recovered his 
breath ; “ but he be under a pile of dirt, and I can’t 


THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK 


153 


get him out alone. My God, sorr, but it be liot in 
there! and there be but little air left. We must hur- 
ry. D’ ye think ye’ll be able to go back with me, 
sorr ?” 

“ I’m all right again. Jack. Come on !” 

And for the second time they disappeared in the 
flames. But how they worked and struggled and 
writhed in that furnace ; how they tore away the rocks 
and dirt from over the body of their comrade; and 
how, between them, they bore him away through that 
hell of burning timber, they never knew. As they 
emerged from the cross-cut, slowly and heavily, in a 
halo of fire, with bent heads and in an agony of pain, 
they perceived vaguely that the drift was full of anx- 
ious men. 

“Saved?” 

“ Saved !” 

“ Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah !” And there rang through 
the stone galleries of the old mine a great burst of joy- 
ful sound that vibrated back from the rock faces, roll- 
ing away into the lost corners of the abandoned work- 
ings and up through the shaft to the surface, where 
another excited crowd took it up with their shrill, far- 
sounding Indian voices, and sent the news across the 
neighboring canadas into the silent mountains beyond. 
But suddenly it died out as quickly as it had come. 

The nervous strain had proved too much for Bell, 
and now that it was all over his strength abandoned 
him ; he staggered and fell forward, striking his fore- 
head against a sharp stone, and lay there in the drift, 
quiet and unconscious. They took him up tenderly, 
and in silence bore their young captain away to his 


154 “THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK” 

(dwelling on the hillside, where two of the miners sat 
by his tarima to watch until the doctor came. Rough 
nurses they were, no doubt, but devoted ones; and 
when at last the doctor told them, “ He’ll be all right 
again soon, senores,” there was great rejoicing at the 
Cotera mine. 

One evening, some days later. Jack Corbis entered 
the long room of the boarding-house, where the men 
were sitting along the benches, smoking and talking 
quietly. Jack put on his spectacles with an unusually 
dignified air, as he stepped up to the head of the table 
and threw down a book on which he laid his giant 
hand. He looked around over the rim of his glasses, 
and seeing that all were listening, he said, in a sub- 
dued but more impressive tone than usual : 

“If there be any man in this camp so tarnation 
mean ’s t’ speak of the boss again as ‘ that Yank from 
Hew York,’ so help me God, I’ll skin him first and 
heave him down the old shaft for the rats to git their 
work in on ! Now that’s clear, ain’t it? and I’m ready 
to begin right now.” He waited a little while ; but as 
no one seemed disposed to put his fiaying powers to a 
practical test, he continued, more good-humoredly : 

“ There be one thing I kind o’ wanted to bring to 
your notice to-night, boys. En that’s edyecation. I 
never took no stock in books on til quite recently, the 
other night— the night o’ the fire, I mean ; ’n it’s be- 
ginnin’ to look to me as though I’d missed the vein 
— drifted clean through the foot-wall and into country 
rock ; as though I’d been puttin’ in my holes like a 
man — good holes, and in the right spot — but thar 
won’t any ore come down with the dirt. En it’s got 


THAT YANK FROM NEW YORK 


155 


to be that in these times minin’ ain’t what it used to be 
oncet, no more ’n anythin’ else is what it was. A man 
without edyecation to-day don’t stand no show against 
a man that has. It’s like hand drillin’ against a three- 
en-a-half Rand. Mebbe you knowed all that, en meb- 
be p’r’aps again you didn’t. But that ain’t neither 
here nor there. What there’s to it is this. It was 
edyecation made the boss a boss — as good a boss as I 
want to work for. Now t’other night he jest went 
right ahead, en we followed him ; ’cause he was the best 
on us, and ’cause we couldn’t help ourselves followin’ 
him. In course ’t were his edyecation did it. We was 
good men, every man of us ; but he was a good man 
with a lot of edyecation to him besides, en he come out 
ahead. That’s why. Boys, let’s edyecate! When 
Mr. Bell comes round he’ll give us a hand en show us 
whar’ we c’n put in the holes best. But meantime I 
thought I’d jest make a start, kind o’ easy ; big print 
en figgers in a handy size for a man o’ my heft — that’s 
what I want to begin with. This book here, that I 
borrowed in the office jest now, with a mate to it for 
the night shift, seems ’bout right. Let me spell the 
name to ’t : 

“Gregory’s ‘ Anal-y-tical Mechanics, Vol. I.;’ en 
that’s the initial monument of my new strike.” 





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IMPRESSIONS OF THE BOAT-RACE 


BY NO. 7 


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IMPRESSIONS OF THE BOAT-RACE 


BY NO. 1 

Ty^E are settled in our seats now, bending over our 
* * oars, and waiting with a forced, unnatural pa- 
tience. The intense tingling excitement of the first 
few minutes is over ; a sort of haze seems to have set- 
tled over the prospect and softened its outlines, and I 
am conscious of the impending race only as of a re- 
mote, unreal possibility. Little things seem far more 
important. A fiy buzzes lazily past me, and I watch 
it as it crawls for a moment over Stroke’s bare back, 
and is blown away towards the other boat. The round- 
ed ripples of muscle moving smoothly under the pol- 
ished skin, shot over with pearly reflections, arrest my 
attention, and the plaster casts of Canova’s boxers in 
iny uncle’s hall suggest themselves to my memory. 
This is a far better torso, I say to myself ; then smile 
at the comparison’s inopportunity at this moment; yet, 
even as I realize this, and as if carried on by acquired 
momentum, my thoughts run on to Greek statues of 
athletes which resemble more closely the splendid 
“ anatomy ” before me. My own arms look long and 
unsafe at the joints, and the muscles seem less com- 
pact, as if twisted of cords that might suddenly snap. 


160 IMPRESSIONS OF THE BOAT-RACE 

The idea of their breaking fills me with a passing 
sense of alarm, just sufficiently acute for me to re- 
member the sensation later, and make me wonder at 
my trivial absent-mindedness. 

Our Cockswain is much more excited than any of 
us, and his mouth is twitching nervously. “ That is 
bad,” I say to myself. “ He should be the coolest head 
on the crew.” It seems strange to me that the whole 
scene should not be more real, and that no one object 
should stand out more vividly. The crowd on the 
shore is moving back and fortli, calling to us and wav- 
ing hats or handkerchiefs ; but the wind mingles their 
words together so that we cannot understand them. 
Moreover, we seem to be severed from them by some 
invisible barrier, as though we were of a different spe- 
cies. They are totally uninteresting, and I look round 
at the other boat cautiously out of the corners of my 
eyes. Their Seven, Stroke, and Cockswain are the 
only ones I can see clearly, and I feel that they too are 
eying us cautiously, stealthily. Their coach, in a canoe 
near them, is giving his final advice, of which only a 
few disconnected words reach me. They also are curi- 
ously uninteresting. 

I wonder for what we are waiting. The summer sun 
is soft and warm, and I feel a delicious glow spreading 
slowly and evenly over my back and shoulders. The 
quiet sheet of water, bright with light, stretches away 
on all sides like a vast metallic mirror, scarcely tar- 
nished by the haze that hangs above it, and in the back- 
ground the wooded hills look soft and distant. For a 
moment I feel myself yielding to the sensation of sen- 
suous pleasure which benumbs my whole physical self. 


IMPRESSIONS OF THE BOAT RACE 


161 


and against which my conscious self feels it its duty to 
struggle. Apparently we are all sensible to it, for the 
others, like myself, have unbent a little, and loosened 
their hold on the oar handles. 

Suddenly the call comes, ‘‘ Now, boys ! make ready.” 

I am trembling a little, and my annoyance at this 
evidence of emotion is but just tempered by the re- 
flection that the Cockswain’s voice was husky and his 
enunciation indistinct. I even wonder why the im- 
pression is not deeper, and yet at the same time I 
know that in reality my attention, both physical and 
mental, is intense and most uncomfortable. 

Boom! Splash! We are off; and a deep silence 
seems to have come over us. We are rowing as in 
a dream ; even the Cockswain’s hoarse “ Now ! now ! 
now !” reaches us from a distance. “ It is easy work,” 
I think. “Well, of course; we have trained honestly 
and carefully; things are quite as they should be.” 
We have settled down to a long steady stroke that 
apparently requires no effort, and the shell is speeding 
ahead smoothly. I feel the work so light that uncon- 
sciously I wish for something to do. I know I must 
not look round, and I long intensely to do so ; but out 
of the corner of my left eye I can just see the blue 
shirt of the Cockswain in the other boat bent forward 
at an angle of forty-flve degrees. It must be pretty 
even, so far. I wonder whether they can be ahead. 
We have passed the first mile-post, and are rowing 
mechanically, with perfect ease, obedient to the mo- 
notonous, equally mechanical, “ Now ! now ! now !” of 
our Cockswain, that for some reason or other does not 
seem to be in time with our stroke. On the banks the 
11 


162 


IMPRESSIONS OF THE BOAT-RACE 


crowd is surging back and forth, winding and unwind- 
ing like a great dark snake moving its coils. The hur- 
rahing is growing more distinct, more boisterous, but 
does not affect us much. We are rowing the race, while 
they are merely hunching against each other. 

The minutes pass slowly, and we slide back and forth, 
back and forth, like a single part of a great machine. 
Stroke’s back fastens my whole attention ; as it moves 
forward I swing forward too, independently of any ef- 
fort of will, and I suppose Six is doing the same with 
reference to me. My eyes seem riveted on a small 
red spot below his right shoulder-blade, and little by 
little all else vanishes from my sight. Its alternate 
motion is my only law. I close my eyes for a mo- 
ment to break this state of semi-hypnotism, and open 
them again much relieved. I have entirely forgotten 
the fact that we are rowing a race, although I am 
acutely conscious of it; but it seems to be rather a 
physical than a mental consciousness, and my thoughts 
are busied with trifles. I wonder at the absence of 
pain or effort. The men are not panting ; we have got 
our second wind by this time, and the Cockswain has 
us well in hand. 

Now the hurrahing comes more distinct, and I feel 
that the blue shirt on my left has fallen back a little, 
but the next moment I doubt it again. Wherever I 
look the same blue shirt is flapping in the wind, and I 
dare not glance over my shoulder. The race begins to 
interest me more directly. I wonder whether we shall 
win, and by how much. Then I wonder whether Seven 
in the other boat is passing through a series of sensa- 
tions at all similar to mine. If I could only look at 


IMPRESSIONS OF THE BOAT-RACE 


163 


him for a moment I should know at once; and, for 
some reason or other, I believe that it would help me 
to know, but I dare not look round. 

The scene on the bank grows more vivid, the crowd 
more sympathetic, and its interest in us more personal, 
more real. A feeling of delight comes over me at be- 
ing the centre of attraction, a powerful factor in the 
emotion that sways them. Then the monotony of the 
work impresses me disagreeably, and the everlasting 
refrain, “E^ow! now! now!” jars upon me. We are 
gliding along, smoothly as before ; nothing seems to 
have changed since we dipped our first stroke, and 
yet one second I feel as though we had been rowing 
through eternity, and the next as though the race had 
not yet begun. Behind us — nearly upon us, they are so 
close — the tugs are puflBng, snorting, and steaming nois- 
ily, their decks covered with a clamorous crew, whose 
excitement contrasts strangely with our own impassi- 
bility and measured motion. The two-inch cylinder of 
spruce between my thumbs suddenly acquires an im- 
mense importance ; it seems alive, moving, and hot. I 
notice that my hands are red, and at the same instant 
catch the gleam of light on the oars of the other crew. 
It looks as though we were gaining — yes — no — yes — 
Well, no matter; it is a close race, and not yet time 
to know anything about the result. We are fresh as 
when we started. I think we shall win. They are 
cheering again, and the crowd seems more excited. 
Behind, the landscape is serene and calm, and the riv- 
er bosom heaves gently in the light between the diag- 
onals of our swash. 

Pisconnected reminiscences of my school-days come 


164 


IMPRESSIONS OP THE BOAT-RACE 


back to me, strangely vivid for a second, then sudden- 
ly vanish. Jolly songs, pleasant excursions with charm- 
ing women, and scenes from a trip in a canoe — “ Row, 
boys, row ; the rapids are nearing.” The Cockswain 
isn’t in time. Oh, damn the Cockswain, anyhow ! I 
am tingling all over, and the blood seems to have 
rushed to my head. We must be rowing faster, yet I 
did not notice any change. There is great cheering by 
the crowd on the bank, and I wonder how we stand. It 
must be pretty close yet. I realize that the distance is 
beginning to tell, and a deep sense of weariness comes 
over me. I wish it were all over. The seconds crawl 
along as slowly as minutes, and now I know that we 
have been rowing an eternity. 

Hullo ! here’s something new. Surely we are spurt- 
ing. Already % That is a mistake ; too soon altogeth- 
er; we shall never stand it. Why, we have only just 
passed the third mile. I guess it is all right, though ; 
the Cockswain knows what he’s about. Then a blank, 
and a momentary interest in the small spot on Stroke’s 
back, and again I fall to contemplating the strip of oar 
handle between my thumbs, and again the blue shirt in 
the other boat comes within my view. It is falling 
back. Hurrah! we are pulling ahead — we have got 
the race ! What is that, now ? They are spurting too, 
and seem fresher than we are. There is no doubt about 
it ; they are forging ahead slowly but surely. Inch by 
inch the other Cockswain is disappearing — disappear- 
ing. How he’s gone. They mu^t be half a length 
ahead. The cheering has become wild, and it is near- 
ly all on the other side. Our Cockswain is terribly ex- 
cited. Well, we must fight it out, to win or lose, as 


IMPRESSIONS OP THE BOAT-RACE 


165 


well as we can. A feeling of utter despair comes over 
me for a moment ; then I set my teeth with a dogged 
determination to win or die, and I feel that every man 
in the boat has tightened his grip on the oar, and is 
preparing for a supreme effort. My thoughts become 
clearer, and I am more quiet ; we are speeding up, and 
the Cockswain is sharply barking at us, “Now! now! 
now !” faster than before. 

Eow ! of course we will row. Here we are, eight of 
us, rowing for our very life — ready for anything. 

Ave Ccesar^morituri te salutant! The thought does 
not seem ridiculous now. With his wizened face drawn 
up in one great gasping wrinkle, that yells at us, “Fast- 
er ! faster ! faster !” when we are going as fast as we 
can, the little man seems truly an imperator clamoring 
for our hearts’ blood. We’ll go up to a hundred if he 
keeps on ; we must be rowing eighty now. Eighty ? 
what humbug ! I am losing my head. If it is forty 
we are doing tremendous work. 

The pace is telling — telling terribly. Well, never 
mind ; it can’t last forever, and I’ll stand it while I 
can. I had rather die than give in. Our men are 
cheering now; we must be pulling up. I can’t look 
round. The little spot on Stroke’s back is all I can 
see, going back and forth like a black speck in my eye 
after looking at the sun. 

Visions of the fighting on Lake Erie suddenly come 
up before me, mingled with patriotic sentiments — the 
Stars and Stripes, “ Don’t give up the ship,” and all 
the melodramatic humbug and hurrah of legendary 
history. Well, why not? I am not ashamed of it, 
and at the thought I feel a hot glow pass all over me. 


166 IMPRESSIONS OP THE BOAT-RACE 

That everlasting refrain, “Now! now! now!” is be- 
coming madly exasperating. 

“ Now, boys !” 

Stroke’s back is moving faster and faster. I am con- 
scious that my arms are weakening, and my leg muscles 
have lost their elasticity. 

“Now! now! now!” 

My God ! does he know what he is doing ? It is per- 
fect agony. Stick to it, my boy ; he is right, and we 
shall win yet. The cheering is increasing, and we are 
moving faster and faster, and yet faster. I am grow- 
ing dizzy and faint, my eyesight blurred, and the blood 
is beating hard and sharp in my temples. Surely, sure- 
ly that is the blue shirt again creeping back into sight. 
I see it distinctly now. Hurrah ! and we are rowing 
faster still. The cries are deafening, the cheering wild, 
and all grows confused and hazy — then an absolute 
blank. 

A moment later and all is quiet. The race is over, 
and we are lying over our oars half fainting. A feel- 
ing of great relief comes over me, then of contentment, 
then of exuberant, intoxicating joy. I wait a moment 
before looking up ; and now I feel calm again and hap- 
py. We have won ! 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE 
HIGUERITA 



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WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE 
HIGUERITA 

I 


NE hot day, about the beginning of June, Jack 



Holt, superintendent of the Higuerita and Rochin 
mines, was bending over his drawing-board in the little 
iron-roofed stone building that stands on the divide be- 
tween the Ranchito and the Rochin canons, when the 
girl Masima lounged in noiselessly, and asked, in her 
usual plaintive voice : 

“ Don Juan, do you wish to eat 
“Is it twelve yet, Masirnita?” he asked in turn, with- 
out looking up from his work. 

“ Quien sdbe^ senor ? The whistle has not yet sound- 
ed, and the clock says it is past twelve — see !” 

“ Wait a minute, little one,” he said, “and I will tell 
you.” Holt finished his work quickly, and, lighting a 
fresh cigar, he leaned back in his chair to enjoy the 
peculiarly delightful feeling of satisfaction which in- 
variably follows the completion of any task. Masima 
had seated herself on a trunk at the foot of the tarima^ 
and was looking up at the clock with that expression 
of patient resignation and suffering common to all the 
women in Sonora, but in her face this characteristic 


170 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

sadness was intensified to such a degree as to strike 
even the most unobserving. Poor lonely little thing ! 
Life so far had meant to hef but suffering and sorrow ; 
and just as she imagined the plain beyond the sierra to 
be the continuation of the one that lay before her, she 
thought of the future only as the morrow of the day — 
another day similar to this in every way. The misery 
of her past, if such a young thing can be said to have 
a past, was too recent for her to have forgotten it, or 
to believe that the relatively comfortable life she was 
now leading was more than a temporary respite. The 
dreamy future was still before her — a future of semi- 
starvation, hard work, and obedience to some cruel, 
brutal master, who would kiss or beat her as his pas- 
sions moved him. 

Although the legality of his title to them might 
have been questioned in more civilized communities, 
Masima and her grandmother, Trinidad, were in some 
sort the personal property of Mr. John Burgess Holt, 
of Salem, Massachusetts, to whom they had been be- 
queathed a few months before. While he was survey- 
ing one day on the Eanchito flat, his 7no20 told him 
that a woman lay very ill in one of the neighboring 
adobe huts, and that he ought to go in and see if noth- 
ing could be done for this unfortunate. The doctors 
had declared themselves incompetent to cure or even 
relieve her; but Don Juan was a man who knew much 
about instruments and chemicals. Perhaps — who 
knows? — he might have something in the laboratory. 
If he could do nothing, why, of course, no one else 
could ; but she would be sure then that she really was 
dying, and as Christians did not die more than once — 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 171 

that was the truth ! — it was best that they should have 
time to prepare themselves. 

The miners and their women often came to Holt for 
relief, which was usually afforded by a pill or a plaster, 
and he felt that it was now expected of him not only 
to visit, the sick in his immediate neighborhood, but 
also to cure them, if God were willing that they should 
be cured. So he left his instruments with Feliz, and 
walked over to the house which the boy had pointed 
out to him. 

There seemed to be three women in the miserable, 
dark, and bare adobe room, from which all but a few 
empty boxes, used as chairs, and some cracked earthen- 
ware, had been removed. In the corner by the door 
stood the usual forked-tree stump that supports the 
water olla^ fragments of which were lying on the 
ground, and one of these now served to catch the drip- 
pings from the leaky old powder-keg which had re- 
placed it. The stone metate, with its smooth brick for 
grinding the tortilla paste, lay outside in the little bam- 
boo enclosure, covered with loose brush, which was the 
kitchen ; it had evidently not been used that day, and 
the low mud-oven to which he put his hand was per- 
fectly cold. Holt entered on tiptoe, and sat down on 
a candle box beside the tajpeste stretched across two 
logs, and on which the sick woman lay, curled up with 
pain, and groaning; the other two crouched on the 
ground in the farther corner, crying softly, as do those 
who have lost all hope. He soon recognized that there 
was nothing to be done beyond making the poor creat- 
ure’s last days as comfortable as possible ; so he had 
the family moved up to the mine to a cabin near his 


172 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

own, where he could see himself that they were taken 
care of. 

A few days after their removal the watchman woke 
him late in the night, and said that Concepcion wished 
to see him at once. 

“I am dying, Don Juan,” she said to him, as he sat 
down beside her. “ I shall be dead before light.” 

Holt felt that she was right ; he wished to reassure 
her, but the words failed him. There was a peculiar, 
far-seeing expression in her eyes which moved him 
strangely, and he was ill at ease under their watchful 
scrutiny. He felt the invisible presence of death near 
him, and without answering he looked down thought- 
fully at the parched, transparent little hand, no larger 
than a child’s, that lay passively on the blanket beside 
his own. When he raised his eyes Concepcion was cry- 
ing bitterly. “Oh, Don Juanito,” she sobbed, “you 
do not say no ! lam dying, and you let me die ! Say 
no, Don Juan — say no, not yet!” But presently she 
grew more calm, as he stroked her forehead. “No; 
you are right,” she continued, sadly. “ What could 
you do, then, against the will of God? Words — words! 
not more. I must die — yes, surely yes, it is coming 
soon.” Then she sank back and lay motionless, with 
her eyes closed, for nearly half an hour, until, thinking 
she had fallen asleep. Holt rose to go to his room ; but 
she called him back before he had reached the door. 

“ I must speak to you, Don J uan,” she said. “ It is 
the last opportunity. Give me a little wine, and sit 
down — not there, here, where I can see you. I did not 
tell you before, because, perhaps, if you had known, 
you would not have been so kind to the little one.” 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 173 

Aud in tlie dim light that illumined the bare little 
room on the last hour before her death she told him 
the sad story of her life : her sins, and their expiation ; 
and how, when he had found them a few days before, 
they were starving by order of the village president, 
to whom she had refused to sell her daughter. The 
neighbors knew it, and took advantage of their weak- 
ness to steal what little they owned before; that day 
their last hen had disappeared. Her child’s father she 
had never seen, never even known by name ; through 
life she had struggled bravely, but unsuccessfully, for 
the crime that had made her a mother had at the same 
time destroyed her health, l^one had ever befriended 
her before, and, having nothing else to give, she be- 
queathed her daughter and mother to the only man 
who had been kind to her. 

At sunset the next day, four miners carried the little 
pine coffin, covered with black indienne and bound 
with white tape, down the winding path that led to the 
village graveyard ; and Holt accepted the legacy, glad 
in the isolation of this desert to feel once more the re- 
sponsibilities and obligations of a family, without which 
man goes down the stream of life adrift like a loose log. 
When his work was over for the day, he turned to this 
wrinkled little old woman of forty-two and to this child 
of twelve for a semblance of home affection. They 
were mere pretexts, of course, but their reality as hu- 
man beings furnished sufficient ground for his imagi- 
nation to work on ; and before long he became sincerely 
attached to his little girl, whom he taught to read and 
tell the time by the clock. It would have been diffi- 
cult for him to say in what light he looked on Masima: 


174 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

she was too young to be a friend, too old to be a child, 
and the existence of his own family in the East sternly 
precluded the consideration of any other near relation- 
ship. For some unexplained reason, the idea of being 
a schoolmaster or tutor to this pupil was extremely 
repugnant to him ; so he concluded to class her in a 
general way among the Mignons and himself among 
the Wilhelm Meisters of a more modern and realistic 
epoch ; he felt, moreover, quite satisfied with the un- 
romantic, practical nature of their surroundings, which 
rendered superfluous the dissertations philosophizing 
of their prototypes. 

As he leaned back in his chair and looked at the lit- 
tle thing on the trunk, it occurred to him for the first 
time that the rapid development of life in these tropi- 
cal countries would render a status quo in their rela- 
tions of comparatively short duration. Masima was as 
yet a child, but in less than a year she would become a 
woman, and numerous complications hovered over the 
horizon. Holt had a momentary but deep glimpse into 
the perplexities that beset the father of a marriageable 
daughter, and the suggestion of possible interviews on 
the subject was in itself so ludicrous that he laughed 
aloud at the idea. 

Masima turned and looked at him with a puzzled, 
half-reproachful expression, wondering why Don Juan 
was laughing at her, which seemed to be the natural 
inference; then, with the unreasoning sympathy which 
characterizes childhood, she laughed too, without know- 
ing why. 

Her laugh was singularly frank and low, dying away 
softly into a faint ha, ha ! that seemed to be its own 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 175 

echo, and to linger long after her red lips had closed 
over the small sharp teeth, white as those of a wolf, but 
lacking the pearly reflections which would have made 
them beautiful. She was not pretty, certainly, although 
a little retouching of nature’s scraper might have made 
her so, and the first glance at the sad little creature was 
disappointing; yet one was unwilling to accept this 
disappointment as a final result, and looked again, won- 
dering unconsciously why, in spite of its insignificance, 
her face had called forth something akin to the sense 
of pleasure always produced by the contemplation of 
the beautiful. Her features, such as they were, be- 
longed to the Central American type, in which the 
nose looks aquiline in profile and flattened in full face. 
Her eyes were of a light-gray color, such as is not un- 
common among the Mayos, rather large than small, 
with narrow lids, rimmed above and below with dark 
lashes that met at the corners and gave them a slightly 
slanting look. Her hair was neither fine nor coarse, 
but flexible, and full of little ripples too short and ab- 
rupt to be called curls ; at Holt’s suggestion, but utter- 
ly indifferent herself as to the effect produced, she 
wound the two long plaits into a heavy coil, under 
which her clear olive skin looked no darker than the 
leaf of a tea-rose. Her hands and feet were small, and 
exceedingly well-shaped, even for an Indian. She held 
herself straight and walked gracefully, in spite of the 
loose, sack-shaped jacket which she had outgrown, and 
the straight-falling, wrinkled cylinder of black cloth, 
which she naively fancied was a skirt. The only evi- 
dence of coquetry which Holt had ever noticed in her 
was shortly after her mother’s death, when she begged 


176 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

him to buy her a gold ring, and with this she would 
play for an hour at a time, sometimes looking up to ask 
whether it was “ real gold, pure gold,” and evidently 
attaching more importance to the standard of the metal 
than to the delicacy of the workmanship. 

As Holt said nothing, but merely smiled, she bent 
her head and began twisting her ring; then she loos- 
ened her rehozo, readjusted it, and threw her head 
back, holding the ends of the shawl straight out before 
her. Her lips were parted, and between them the 
bright line of her teeth glistened in the sunlight, 
which made her half close her eyes as she looked at 
her master seriously, even solemnly. 

“ Don’t you want to eat, Don Juan ?” she asked again. 

“ Tell me first what time it is,” he said, pointing to 
the clock on the wall. 

She stood up and put the forefinger of her left hand 
at XII on the dial, and began counting the minutes, 
one by one, with the other. 

“ That is twelve o’clock ; that is fifteen, sixteen, sev- 
enteen minutes. Twelve o’clock and seventeen — is 
that right?” and she looked at him interrogatively 
over her shoulder. 

“Yes, that is right, Masimita; you can bring the 
meat at once,” he answered, and went out into the cot- 
ton-screened veranda, where he took his meals during 
the rainy season. Eating was a monotonous, wearisome 
duty this hot weather, and the daily menu of frijoles 
and tortillas^ with an occasional box of sardines, was 
ill calculated to stimulate a failing appetite, so that he 
looked upon his food as a medicine to be taken, nolens 
volenSy three times a day. 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 177 

Things were running smoothly at the mine, and the 
daily routine of duty was becoming so tedious to him 
that he craved for a little excitement of any kind to 
vary the monotony of this life. The same smooth 
routine existed below at the mill in Aduana, and the 
entertainment afforded by Alamos was neither very in- 
teresting nor very elevating. As he sat before his plate 
of beans, Holt reflected that he had signed a three years’ 
contract, and the hopeless isolation and dreariness of 
the existence which he must lead for at least two more 
years fairly appalled him. Hitherto his work had been 
so severe and engrossing that he had suffered but little 
from the intellectual isolation of his position ; but he 
had had ample opportunities for appreciating how com- 
plete it was. In the whole of the surrounding country 
there was but one man of his years who could ever be 
a companion to him, and he was at work for a Mexican 
firm more than forty miles away, so that they could 
meet only at rare intervals. This Krisch was a Ger- 
man, an old Freiberger, as was also Holt, and it gave 
both these young exiles from the North a deep pleas- 
ure to talk over old days and “home.” Isolated as 
they were in the great desert of Sonora, they had soon 
become good friends, and in each other’s company for- 
got that they were but two. But to-day Holt was alone, 
and felt astounded and frightened at the relentless sim- 
plicity of the life to which he was doomed. Intellect- 
ual privation is harder to bear than physical hardship, 
and if man is materially attracted by vacuum, mentally 
he shrinks from and abhors it. The effects of absolute 
absence of sound, of light or motion, with which Holt 
had experimented upon himself below-ground, seemed 
12 


178 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

insignificant now when compared with those likely to 
follow a two years’ severance from all intellectual life, 
and he could not but liken his existence during these 
long months to come to the slow, toilsome crossing of 
the barren plain which he could see stretching away 
before him, unbroken and silent, to the dim range of 
bluish hills behind which were civilization and home. 

He was aroused from the contemplation of these 
dreary vistas by the sound of Masima’s voice. “ You 
do not eat, Don Juanito. Are the frijoles not good ?” 

“ No, child,” he answered, absently. “ Take them 
away. I do not care for any to-day. Why didn’t you 
give me some eggs?” 

“ No hay^ senor.'*^ 

“There aren’t any? Why not?” 

“ Why, the hens don’t lay in the waters, Don Juan.” 

“ And is there no meat ?” 

. “ No, sehor ; they have not killed this month. Shall 
I make you some tomales V' 

“ Never mind now, little one ; you can keep them 
for supper. Bring me the coffee.” 

Masirna went into the kitchen, and came back with 
the coffee-pot in one hand and in the other a revolver, 
which she held away from her, shuddering, as if the 
reflections from the nickel plating had been the gleam 
of a snake’s eye. 

“ I am afraid,” she said, with a nervous little laugh, 
as she laid it down on the table. “But I want to 
know how to load and clean the pistol. Show me.” 

“ And what for do you want to know that ?” 

Masirna looked out of the window for a few mo- 
ments before replying; then she turned and said, 
quietly, “ For that.” 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 179 

“ That is no answer, little one. Come, tell me why 
you want to know.” 

The girl hung her head and looked down without 
speaking ; then she took up the pistol, and said, in an 
entreating tone, “Show me, Don Juanito.” 

Holt was puzzled, for the girl had never spoken to 
him so earnestly before. She was not given to ca- 
pricious whims, and it was evident that now she had 
some definite object in view. It was equally clear 
that no amount of questioning would make her disclose 
what she refused to tell of her own free will. He was 
conscious of a vague presentiment of impending catas- 
trophe, which, however, vanished from his mind even 
before it had had time to translate itself into an impres- 
sion. There seemed to be no reason why he should 
not teach her to clean his fire-arms as well as his in- 
struments ; she was very careful and skilful with her 
fingers, and he apprehended no danger of accident 
from carelessness. So he granted her wish, and in 
half an hour she had learned to empty, load, and take 
to pieces his Merwin & Hulbert revolver and his Win- 
chester carbine with a precision and rapidity which 
astonished him. With this, however, she was not sat- 
isfied, but ran into the office and brought him his 
Evans rifle. Holt began to think that her object was 
a more serious one than he had at first supposed, and 
asked her once more to tell him what she meant to do 
with the “ irons.” 

“Ho, no, Don Juan; show me this one too,” she 
answered, in a low voice hoarse with suppressed emo- 
tion. She had thrown off her rehozo, and was leaning 
over, with her elbows on the table and her chin resting 


180 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

on her upturned palms; a bright-red spot glowed on 
her cheek under each eye ; one of her braids had be- 
come loosened, and with a quick gesture she drew it 
across her mouth and held it there with her fingers 
half buried in the thick black coil. 

The rifie was rusty, so he unscrewed the sliding 
joint to oil the bearing surfaces, Masima meanwhile 
following his movements with the quick, concentrated 
watchfulness of a cat, and moving her fingers very 
slowly back and forth one against the other. When 
he noticed her nervous condition he laid the screw- 
driver down, and, more to see what the effect would be 
on the excited little savage than because he expected 
an answer, he said, in a careless w^ay, “ If you don’t 
tell me, Masima, I shall put it away without showing 
you how it works. What do you want to do with the 
rifle?” 

For a moment she said nothing, then flashed her 
eyes suddenly up into his, and cried the single word, 
“ Matar 

Holt’s first impulse was to burst into laughter at 
this exhibition of childish ferocity; but there was 
something in the savage gleam of her eye which 
stopped him. Her tense lowered brow cut off the up- 
per part of the iris squarely, and the shrunken pupil 
stared at him very fixedly and very viciously, cold, 
bright, and glittering like the gaze of a hurila about 
to strike — a comparison that was strengthened by the 
slanting lines diverging backward from the root of the 
eyebrows, and the effect of which was apparently to 
flatten the forehead. A slight twitching sharpened 
the curves of the short upper lip, beneath which the 


What do you want to do with the rijlef 











% 




WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 181 

little pointed teeth glistened suggestively, while the 
small hands were cramped like the talons of a bird of 
prey over the braid of hair that lay on the table. 

Before he could sufficiently recover from his surprise 
to express himself in words, there was a jingle of spurs 
outside and a sharp rap at the door. Masima suddenly 
regained her usual quiet manner, and passed out lazily, 
as Alejo, Mr. Tracy’s private mozo^ entered the room 
without waiting for an answer. He wasted no time 
in unnecessary polite formalities, but handed a crum- 
pled paper to Holt, and said the mules were ready. 
Then he untwisted the ends of a cigarette, emptied the 
contents into his hand, smoothed the paper, and rolling 
up the tobacco with a single quick jerk of his thumbs, 
he asked Don Juan for a light. 

The letter was from Mr. Tracy, the general manager, 
and its style, like the bearer, lacked “ effete ” polish or 
adornment. 

“Dear Jack, — Send down every wliite man you’ve got ; five 
sharp ; engine-room at the mill. Get ready to start for a week’s 
journey ; leave from the mine with the moon to - night : four 
mozos. Come down at once. Hell to pay ! Tracy.” 

Holt read the letter through twice; there could be 
no mistake about it. If Tracy said there was hell to 
pay, the news must be important and serious. So he 
sent Alejo at once down to the shift-house to transmit 
the orders, and was about to call Masima, when she 
walked into the room and came up to him. 

“You want me, Don Juan?” she asked, without 
looking at him. 

“Yes, child. I am going away to-night for a few 
days. Will you get my things ready ?” 


182 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGDERITA 

“Where are you going, Don Juanito?” the girl 
asked, clasping her hands. 

“ Quien sdbe^ chiquita! But that does not matter 
to you ; you will have a holiday. Are you glad 

“And you are coming back, Don Juan — quite sure 
you are coming back 

“ Why, of course I am coming back. But what is 
the matter he asked, struck by the curious way in 
which she had looked at him. 

Nada^ serlorP She hesitated a moment; then, 
coming up quite close to him, she looked into his eyes 
and added, in a whisper, “ Don’t pass near Baballahui.” 

“ Why, what do you mean, Masima ?” Holt asked, 
surprised at this warning. But she sprang away from 
him quickly and ran out of the room. There was no 
time to lose; so he did not follow, but buckled on his 
spurs, and vaulted on to the mule which Alejo was 
holding outside. “The girl knows sometliing evi- 
dently,” he said to himself as he rode away ; “ and in 
this country it is wise to accept the advice of the na- 
tives, absurd as it may often seem. Where is Babal- 
lahui, anyway?” he asked of Alejo, as they rode 
down the winding path that leads to Aduana. 

“Below Havajoa, Don Juan; ’way down on the 
Mayo, in the Indian country.” 

“ Indian country 1” Holt gave a prolonged whistle 
as the truth suddenly flashed across his mind. “ The 
Mayos must be rising. Pieacho ! that looks serious.” 
With a quick movement he drove the spurs into Pan- 
chita, who dashed off at a gallop over the rocky road, 
and a few minutes later he pulled her up, covered with 
foam, in the patio of the hacienda. 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 183 

As he entered the oflSce, Mr. Tracy stopped in his 
nervous race from wall to wall of the large, red-tiled 
apartment, and held out his hand. “ I’m glad to see 
you. Jack,” he said. “ How are you ? Take a cigar 
and sit down. Did you notify the men ? Good ! 
Now to business.” 

While Holt was shaking hands with Don Agustin 
Salcevedo and his brother Guadalupe, who had ridden 
in from the river with the news, Tracy unfolded a 
large map of the State of Sonora, and spread it out on 
the table before them. He was a short, well-knit man 
of fifty, with hard, bright-blue eyes, whose expression 
never softened, and a quick, energetic manner which 
the men liked well. He had formerly served in the 
frontier cavalry, and had there acquired the habit of 
speaking abruptly, in a loud, distinct tone of command, 
which made even his “good-morning” sound like a 
peremptory order. In spite of this outward hardness, 
he was a good, just man, of relentless integrity, and 
great yet not reckless intrepidity. Life was short, and 
he had no time to waste, strange as this might seem to 
the Mexican gentleipen, whose phlegmatic indifference 
was to him a source of perpetual wonder and irritation. 
“ I was born alive, and the best of those fellows,” he 
used to say, speaking of his Spanish friends, “ was 
raised in some kind of an incubator. However, they 
are in their own country, and you must let them do 
things in their own way. Their governor is set for 
low speed, and you can’t hurry them any more than 
you can a mule. Dig the spurs in, and the cuss6d 
animal will come to a full stop.” 

“Look here. Jack,” he began, after weighting down 


184 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

the corners of the map with specimens of ore, and point- 
ing to the space enclosed between the Gulf of Califor- 
nia and the Yaqui and Mayo rivers, “ it isn’t a long 
story : the Indians are rising en masse^ and in less than 
a fortnight they will have walloped all the troops 
in the state, and be dancing a fandango on the plaza 
of Alamos. They want to pass over the hill yonder 
and take us in on the way. I’ve been thinking for 
some time past that that was their game, and when 
they call I’m going to plank down a straight flush. 
Our friends here say it’s no use, and advise us to 
move into town and join the troops. What do you 
think of it?” 

“Well, Mr. Tracy,” Holt answered, cautiously, “if 
the men will stand, and we have the proper tools, I 
suppose we run as good a chance of being scalped here 
as down below. You want to fight, of course — and 
I guess I’ll have to obey orders.” 

“ Good, Jack !” Tracy answered, quickly ; “ I knew 
you )^ould. Gentlemen,” he continued, turning to 
the Mexicans, whose stolid faces showed neither ap- 
proval nor criticism, “ we’ll risk it. How you tell us 
all you know and give us the points.” 

While the ofiicers of the company were discussing 
their plans, the men straggled in from the mine in 
small parties of five or six, and lounged around the 
engine-room, waiting for the appointed hour. Many 
of them had been in the country a long time, and had 
learned that patience was a. necessity. There was little 
if any excitement, except among the Cornishmen fresh 
from the “ ol’ countary,” and little talking, for the 
regular monotonous pounding of the stamps rendered 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 185 

all conversation difficult. Moreover, like all men who 
have lived together, a small community cut off from 
all intercourse with the outer world, they had little or 
nothing to say to each other. Their interests and 
feelings were all more or less the same, and the excit- 
ing incidents developed by the routine of a well-regu- 
lated mining camp are few, and usually disposed of in 
a few words. Perhaps it was owing to the imposing 
silence of the landscape, perhaps also to a certain sense 
of isolation which all recognized in a greater or lesser 
degree, or perhaps to the strange, inexplicable atmos- 
phere of prudery which miners are apt to draw around 
their former life, but sustained conversation at the 
Iliguerita had never been encouraged. The men seemed 
content to sit together, for the most part silent, and 
smoke their pipes in philosophic indifference. In this 
country they tacitly recognized their absolute insignif- 
icance as mere individuals; for action it was impera- 
tive that they should form a combined party. The 
elements, the country itself, the population, and the 
conditions of life in their surroundings were all hostile 
factors in their struggle, and the odds were by far too 
long for any single man to battle against. So they 
waited calmly for the appearance of their chiefs, with- 
out troubling themselves to discuss eventualities of 
which they were totally ignorant. 

At a few minutes before five the stamps were hung 
up and steam shut off. The large fiy- wheel of the 
engine, carried on by its own impetus, made a few 
more uncertain turns, hesitated, and finally stopped al- 
together. The whistle sounded shrilly three times, and 
as the quavering, sibilant echo lost itself among the 


186 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 


neighboring canadas the men in the engine-room fell 
apart in two distinct groups, miners and mill hands, 
each headed by its respective boss. Mr. Tracy, Holt, 
and the other officers walked up between them, and oc- 
cupied the engineer’s platform. 

“ Boys,” Mr. Tracy began at once, in his clear, de- 
termined voice, “I have called you together to ask you 
to stand by me. The Indians are rising between the 
rivers and are coming this way. There are hardly any 
troops between us and them, so that it is merely a 
question of a few days. But the governor has sent 
reinforcements from the north, and I want to hold 
out until they arrive. We shall have machine-guns, 
plenty of provisions, and plenty of ammunition. All 
we need is men. We put up this plant together, boys ; 
let us stand by it. We made this mine; let us fight 
for it. However, I want you to understand the situa- 
tion thoroughly before you answer. It is a matter of 
life and death. If we are defeated, there will not be a 
man left to tell the story. There is time yet for you to 
get away if you’re so minded. But I want to know to- 
night whether you are going or whether you will see 
me through. I mean to stay if I stay alone.” 

Lowe, the mill boss, picked up a shingle, and with a 
piece of chalk in his hand he walked down the line to 
make his tally. 

“ The mill is all right, colonel,” he cried out, cheer- 
fully. “But, by , I’d ’a given any chap who’d ’a 

wanted to back down such an almighty hidin’ he 
couldn’t ’a got away anyhow !” 

Meanwhile, Jack Corbis, the boss miner, was quietly 
plugging his pipe. He had not even turned to look at 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 187 

his men, and his sole preoccupation seemed to be re- 
garding the quantity of tobacco which judicious com- 
pression could induce his cutty to hold. 

“ Well, Jack Holt called out to him. 

‘‘In course we’ll fight,” Jack answered, in a half- 
apologetic, half-indignant tone, and shrugging his broad 
shoulders. “And now, boys,” he added, turning to face 
the miners, “ three cheers for the colonel !” 

When the noise had subsided, the men were con- 
scious of a distinct but at first indefinable change in 
the moral atmosphere of their life. It was as though 
a pair of strong magnifying-glasses had suddenly been 
placed before their eyes, and they had not yet grown 
accustomed to this new perspective. Immediate ob- 
jects and details had become painfully, abnormally 
distinct, while those a little farther removed looked 
blurred and shadowy. They felt that it was now no 
longer merely a question of working along, one shift 
nearer to an ever-receding end, nor of taking up to- 
morrow the job they had left unfinished to-day. They 
had three weeks before them, and into these three 
weeks, for some of them at least, the total remaining 
energy of their life must be condensed. It was clear 
to all that they had a new basis in life. In the minds 
of some this took the form of presentiment. The less 
superstitious, less imaginative among them merely 
looked on the issue as a supreme but doubtful one, 
and avoided applying the result to themselves indi- 
vidually. All, however, felt the necessity of reflect- 
ing on this matter seriously ; so little was said as they 
regained their quarters and wondered what plan would 
be adopted for the defence of the mine. 


188 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

It was nearly dark when Holt returned to his cabin. 
A cold supper was laid on the table, but Masima was 
nowhere to be found, and only the old grandmother 
answered his calls. She had not seen the girl for 
some hours. Mr. Tracy had given him orders to start 
that night with four men to reinforce and hurry along 
the mule train, now on its way from the north with 
the guns and ammunition, and he had too many things 
on his mind to trouble himself then about the girl’s 
whereabouts. So, after seeing that his instructions had 
been carried out, he kicked off his boots, threw himself 
on his tarimay and in less than half an hour he was 
sound asleep. 

When he awoke, about two o’clock, Alejo was stand- 
ing by his side, belted and spurred, with his serape 
wound around him. 

“ Ya estd^ Don Juan^^ he said, in his low but pene- 
trating voice. “ The moon is rising.” 

Holt jumped up, pulled on his boots, and buckled on 
his revolver, while the boy put on his spurs. As he was 
leaving the room, Krisch ran in, and, taking him in his 
arms, kissed him on either cheek. 

Dscheck ! I’m going with you,” he exclaimed, 
as soon as his lips had finished their osculatory duty. 
“You don’t object to my going?” 

Holt rather favored the Anglo-Saxon prejudice 
against masculine kisses, and grasped his hand warm- 
ly. At this juncture nothing could have given him 
greater pleasure than the appearance of this rosy- 
cheeked, red-bearded, simple-hearted friend ; yet, with 
the reserve characteristic of his race, he compressed 
his joy into the somewhat hanal and cold greeting : 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 189 

“ How are you, old man ? I am glad to see you. But, 
Krisch,” he continued, as the opportunity of the lat- 
ter’s arrival struck him, “ why are you here ? How did 
you know I was going?” 

“ I got back to Alamos this evening, just as Don 
Agustin returned from Aduana,” the other answered, 
“ and he told me the whole story. I thought if there 
was any fighting I might as well be here with you as 
alone in town with the Mexicans, so I rode back to the 
mill. Tracy said you were going off with the moon, 
and I thought to myself so : ‘ Caramba ! I’ll go with 
Dscheck !’ and here I am.” 

“ You know it’s a dangerous ride, Krisch ; we may 
get caught, and that will be the end of it.” 

“ Na ! You’re going, and if it comes to — to — I’d 
rather be with you, Dscheck.” 

Holt pressed his hand again, and they went out into 
the soft moonlight that flowed in like a solemn tide 
over the crest of the* Frailes. This little plateau, bar- 
ren as it was, had, after all, been his home for more 
than a year, and now for the first time he experienced 
a feeling of sadness. at leaving it. It occurred to him 
that he might never see it again, and he turned to look 
once more at the simple whitewashed house, his chez- 
7noi, and at the silent cabins of the miners up on the 
Libertad Hill. As he stood there, something moved 
in the shadow of the veranda, and he called out, “ Is 
that you, Masima ?” 

senor^'^ the girl answered, coming forward. 
“And you are already going away, Don Juanito?” 

“ Yes, little one. Will you come with me 

“ You will say, Don Juanito. I would go.” 


190 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

Holt was moved. Perhaps it was only that the sad- 
ness which he could not shake off sought expression in 
some form distinct from inarticulate speech; or per- 
haps the impropriety of retaining in his possession the 
labial demonstrations which Krisch had implanted on 
his cheeks suggested a transfer ; but whatever the mo- 
tive, he gently wound his hand among the black braids 
under the girl’s rehozo^ drew her head back, and kissed 
her. 

^‘Adios, Masimita /” he cried, as he vaulted into the 
saddle. 

“ Vaya con Dios^ Don Juan /” she answered, softly ; 
and in single file they rode out into the deep shadow 
which the Higuerita threw over the Hochin Valley. 

At this early hour nothing moved in the silent land- 
scape, checkered with strong lights and shadows; the 
night was cool, and in the canadas, where a slight mist 
hung in the mesquite branches, the air was heavy with 
the sweet perfume of the papaches and the more pun- 
gent fragrance of the romeria. From time to time, as 
their tapaderas caught in the dry hollow thorns of the 
mautos and shook their feathery branches, a startled 
cow would jump to her feet heavily and gaze for a 
moment at the riders with her large sad eyes, then 
break away noisily through the brush ; or a fright- 
ened chupilote, suddenly awakened by the clink of 
the mules’ shoes on some loose stone, would sail away 
from his perch on a fluted hecho column to anoth- 
er farther off, and all grew silent again and still as 
before. 

Dawn was breaking when they reached level ground 
and put their mules to a trot along the Navajoa road. 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 191 

They were now nearing the Indian country, and Holt 
sent tw’o mozos ahead as a vanguard ; the other two 
rode behind, while Krisch and he cantered along be- 
tween them. It may have been that these precau- 
tions made the presence of danger seem more real, or 
perhaps it was only the influence of the chilly gray- 
ness of early dawn, but certainly both Jack and his 
companion began to realize that this was a very differ- 
ent ride from any they had taken before. They were 
not afraid, yet the nervous restlessness from which 
even old soldiers are not exempt before the battle has 
begun is something akin to animal fear. The dismal 
bark of the coyote in the prairie seemed doubly dismal 
and foreboding. Visions and recollections of home 
would suddenly force themselves irrelevantly upon 
their thoughts with a strange vividness, then as sud- 
denly vanish, leaving behind them a feeling of uncer- 
tainty that was only intensifled by the wild beauty 
and the loneliness of the silent country through which 
they w^ere riding. Nothing moved as they passed 
through the ranchos along the road, and no sound 
came from the corrals but the whining bark of some 
half-coyote cur skulking behind the long lines of pack- 
saddles set up side by side like a gallery of little Gothic 
arches. Beneath the porches men, women, and children 
slept together with their pigs and hens; and outside, 
under the large full -topped mesquites, the arrieros, 
wrapped in their blue and white serapes, lay on the 
bare ground in picturesque groups, just as they had 
fallen the night before. Along the banks of the stony 
arroyos tall sabina-trees fluttered their little feathery 
fern-shaped leaves in the blue-gray light that in the 


192 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 


east was tinged with purplish reflections, and poured 
the heavy dew-drops on to the star-shaped leaves of 
the palma-christi through which the mules pushed 
their way slowly. Suddenly a cock crowed in the 
distance, a heron rose heavily from the reeds near 
them, and as they reached the Mayo the sun burst 
forth gloriously over the eastern horizon, scattering a 
cloud of gold-dust over the mist that lay on the river, 
and sounding nature’s mighty reveille. In an instant 
the whole scene changed, and life awoke noisily. The 
mules threw up their heads and plunged into the river; 
the riders sat up in the saddle and pulled at this strap 
or that. Mottled jack- rabbits, with soft pink ears stand- 
ing upright, ran along before them, and stopped sud- 
denly with a jerk behind some stone to gaze at the pass- 
ing horsemen, and a thousand birds chattered and sang 
in the thicket that but a moment before was silent and 
dead. All feeling of despondency had vanished, and a 
healthy gladness drove away the last vestige of fear or 
fatigue. Krisch looked up, laughing, and called out, 
Dscheck !” 

‘‘What is it?” answered Holt, knowing full well that 
his friend had nothing to say. “Isn’t it glorious? 
Let’s have a gallop.” 

And sitting far back in the saddle, they held up their 
reins in their left hand, and, swinging the riata in the 
right, they gradually disappeared behind the low ridges 
of the rolling ground. 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 193 


II 

When they returned to the mine a few days later 
with the guns, the works of defence were being pushed 
night and day with the utmost energy. All the mill 
and mine work proper had been stopped ; on the sur- 
face they were erecting rude revolving turrets of wood, 
the armor of which had been put together with pieces 
of the sectional settling -pans bolted to one another. 
The first of these was placed on the Higuerita crest, 
and commanded the old shaft, the road to Promonto- 
rios, and the pass at the top of the Kanchito Canada, 
beyond which the inaccessible Frailes barred the way. 
The second had been mounted on the stone oflSce, and 
raked the mine plateau, the Libertad Hill, and the 
Rochin valley from the vertical wall, four hundred feet 
high, of the Hacacharamba on the left to the Minas 
Huevas road on the right. ° So long as these positions 
were held, the Indians could only pass on to Alamos 
after defeating the troops camped in the Minas Nuevas 
plain. As a further precaution a large quantity of 
dynamite had been secreted in a drift near the mouth 
of the old shaft, and this could be fired by electricity 
from either of the Monitor turrets. Similar disposi- 
tions had been made at the mill in Aduana. 

Below -ground all the work was concentrated on 
driving through the few feet which still remained to 
connect different portions of the great drain tunnel 
13 


194 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

that opened into the mill-yard. In the headings, where 
hitherto they had only been able to handle two drills, 
the men had now managed to put three, and, doubled 
up on low temporary platforms, they worked with des- 
perate energy as many hours as they could endure it, 
when the next shift went on at once. It was indeed a 
scene from the “ Inferno.” The heat was intense ; and 
in the dim light of the spluttering candles the drill- 
men, naked to the waist, looked like ghostly demons in 
an atmosphere of vapor. Silent themselves and watch- 
ful, with feverish eyes and pale, drawn features, they 
controlled the thunder of the pounding machines, 
while their dark Mexican helpers, crouching in the shad- 
ow below them, watched every movement, every sign, 
ready to hand up the water, the swab, or a fresh drill. 
Behind these again a group of Indian boys, entirely 
naked, threw the loose dirt and rock to others farther 
on, who loaded the cars ; their heavy black hair and 
glittering eyes; their smooth dark skin shining in the 
damp atmosphere like polished bronze ; their wild yells 
of encouragement or chaff ; and their grotesque contor- 
tions as they slipped, fell, and jumped back and forth — 
all made them seem like writhing demons. And here, 
a thousand feet below-ground, the reverberating rum- 
ble of the rock cars, the sharp, short t^chah^ t^chah^ of 
the escaping air, the drumming of the drills against 
the rock, and the pungent, irritating odor of the dyna- 
mite fumes, impressed even those accustomed to the 
‘‘ dead sounds ” of underground work, and suggested 
disquieting reminiscences of nightmares or worse. 
Suddenly it would all cease; for. a space the liglits 
were hidden by the men’s bodies ; a gust of short, an- 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 195 

gry commands, oaths, and cries, in English, Spanish, 
or Indian, swept down the drift; a train of loaded 
cars, followed by the panting men, who stumbled over 
the stones and rough-laid sleepers, rolled along into 
the darkness beyond; the gong sounded three times, 
and all became silent as a tomb. Then a broad flash 
of reddish flame lighted up the walls ; the ground gave 
a premonitory heave, and with a dull, lingering report 
a hurricane of stone and rock crashed through the dark 
tunnel, bounding off the rough surfaces of the walls, 
and re-echoed far beyond through the deserted work- 
ings. Then again all was still until the rushing of the 
compressed air broke the silence, whistling through 
the pile of loose “ dirt ” or flurrying against the breast, 
and one of the old hands tottered through the red 
smoke, shielding his candle in the palm of his hand. 

“Hepa! Heee-paaah! Hulloa! Come along!” And 
a few minutes later the men were at work again, sweat- 
ing, swearing, yelling, and panting, and the heavy 
drills were thundering at their target. 

At last all was ready. The men had become accus- 
tomed to their new life, and longed for the Indians to 
appear. Armed to the teeth, they lounged listlessly 
around the camp, or through their glasses watched 
the village of Promontorios, the destruction of which 
would warn them that the enemy was approaching. 
Scouts had been sent out, and daily some one or other 
of them would return and report on the advance of the 
Indians, some four thousand men, fairly well armed, 
and bent on destruction. 

The idea of attempting to stem the march of so large 
a body of men with the forces at his command — thirty^ 


196 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

seven white men at the mine and sixteen at the mill — 
seemed to Holt no less ludicrous than it was heroic ; 
but heroism is apt to appear ludicrous ante factum. 
To the men, however, whose experience in such mat- 
ters was small, and whose contempt for the Indians 
was instinctive and supreme, it seemed sufficient to 
have made up their minds on this matter for the result 
to be a foregone conclusion. Mr. Tracy was too busy 
to have any leisure for reflection, and the eventual re- 
sult of his venture was not a ripe subject for consider- 
ation. The next thing to do was to hold the mine; 
when he had done that, it would be time to go on with 
the next problem, whatever that might be. Krisch was 
good-naturedly hopeful, but curiosity was at present 
the controlling factor in his mind. He had never seen 
a fight of any description, he had never seen the ma- 
chine-guns work, he had never stood a siege, and he 
was mildly excited at being initiated into all these mys- 
teries at once. Lowe, who had once been corralled 
by the Apaches in Arizona, was probably the only man 
who fully appreciated the gravity of the situation, and 
he deemed it wise to keep his reflections to himself. 
So that, perhaps, as fearless a force of men as the 
Higuerita miners had rarely before awaited the attack 
of an overwhelmingly superior foe. 

One Sunday morning the lookout on the upper tur- 
ret reported firing in the neighborhood of Promonto- 
rios, and not long after slender spirals of smoke, fanned 
upward by the swaying flames, proclaimed that the 
village had been taken. A few hours more and prob- 
ably their turn would come. There was not a man in 
the camp who at the thought did not feel a hard lump 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUEKITA 197 

in his throat and an accelerated beating of his heart; 
but such confessions did not seem to be popular, and 
Krisch alone was simple-minded enough to tell Holt 
that a status quo would be more satisfactory than he had 
anticipated. It was perhaps fortunate that the men had 
little leisure to dwell on the horrible side of possible 
eventualities, for in such moments panics are rumor- 
born even among the bravest, and this positive evi- 
dence of the existence of a foe whom they had hitherto 
looked upon as more or less imaginary might have pro- 
duced serious results. When excited, however, men pass 
naturally from one extreme to the other. So when Poly- 
carpio, one of the Indian scouts, came in and reported 
the atrocities committed at Promontories, every ves- 
tige of fear vanished before a wild, irrational desire to 
murder every man of them, to “ get at ’em and polish 
off the black devils as soon as possible.” 

The Indians had attacked the village at dawn. In 
less than an hour the few Mexican troops had been 
surrounded, and all killed or captured. The children 
were thrown alive into the wells or on to the burning 
houses, and a little later the fainting women, with brok- 
en arms and bleeding breasts, were flung over the wall 
and into the arroyo. When the president and vice- 
president of the pueblo had been set aside, the remain- 
ing prisoners were stripped naked and led to the plaza, 
on which a layer of the savage prickly-pear boughs had 
been spread. The skin was then torn from the soles 
of their feet, and the bleeding wretches made to dance 
on the spiked tunas until they fell exhausted on the 
bloody carpet. Even then the monsters whipped them 
with long snake-shaped branches of cactus, and forced 


198 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERlfA 

the quivering limbs to make a few more spasmodic 
contractions before they stiffened in death. A few of 
the principal citizens, lashed to powder-kegs, were set 
up as a mark and shot at until they were gone. Then 
the president and his second, each tied to a plank, 
were carried out and placed under the ends of a see- 
saw in such a way that the cross-board would strike 
their heads gently at each oscillation, and three of the 
Yaquis slowly danced the life out of them, while the 
now half-drunken, blood-thirsty crowd yelled for more. 
Alas! there were no more; and with their machetes 
they threw themselves upon the mangled bodies, and 
hacked this bleeding mass of humanity into a horrible, 
shapeless pulp. 

The miners listened to this ghastly tale in silence. 
Slow as most of them were to accept the forms or dog- 
mas of religion, it seemed to them that God — for at 
bottom all men who wrestle with nature in abnormal 
conditions believe in God — could not allow such atroci- 
ties to pass unpunished, unavenged. There was no 
swearing, and but little talking; the minutes were 
passing, and the hour of action was about to strike. 

When the word came that the Indians were advanc- 
ing, the crest of the Higuerita was deserted, and every 
man at his post. In the upper tower, where Jack 
Corbis knelt behind his gun, Mr. Tracy, Holt, and 
Krisch stood together at the narrow port-holes covered 
with painted wire-cloth, through which they watched 
the enemy, who was beginning to show himself cau- 
tiously. Nothing moved on the apparently abandoned 
plateau of the mine, but the iron turrets noiselessly and 
imperceptibly turned on their axes so as to cover the 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 199 

heaviest body of the Indians, now emerging from the 
thickets on all sides of the hill, which they had sur- 
rounded. At first they seemed suspicious at this abso- 
lute desertion, and waited for their chiefs, who ordered 
a volley to be fired tentatively at the turrets. 

Zip— zip-zwang-t’n ! Krisch turned to follow the 
sound round the iron box in which they were, and 
asked in a whisper: 

“ You, Dscheck, what was then that Then espy- 
ing the ragged chunk of lead on the floor, he picked it 
up, and holding it with unfeigned wonder between his 
fingers, he added solemnly, in English, for he attempt- 
ed English when he was excited, “ It was an ball !” 

A smile went round at this simple-minded remark, 
but quickly vanished as Mr. Tracy, with one hand on 
the signal click and the other on the flag-rope, called 
out ; “ Silence and attention now. Jack. They are 
coming. Are you ready?” 

“ Ay, ay, sir — ready !” the man answered. 

No shot had been fired in answer to their volley, 
and the Indians were approaching boldly. There was 
something awful in the unsuspecting advance of all 
this “ cannon meat ” — something that, in spite of its 
horror, reassured the superstitious, who saw in it the 
hand of Providence leading the criminals up to their 
punishment. 

“ Now, Jack, ready — fire !” 

Twice the turret revolved completely, and Jack 
turned his crank viciously. They could hear or see 
nothing, for the iron box was surrounded by a cloud of 
smoke, and the rattling of the gun completely drowned 
all other sounds. But the moment that preceded that 


200 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

in which they regained their hearing was a painful 
one; the next still more so. For before the intoxica- 
tion of powder and blood has frenzied the mind, even 
the most hardened are appalled at the silence of their 
victim, at the sudden cessation of that life which they 
have extinguished. The species of remorse which men 
acting together are apt to feel collectively becomes 
personal at the victim’s cry of reproach, which each 
actor in the drama immediately feels is meant for him 
alone. Where a dozen soldiers have shot a man it is 
safe to say that each one would indignantly repudiate 
the deed; yet if the shots had failed to take fatal 
effect, every man of those twelve would involuntarily 
accuse himself of cruelty, as if he alone were responsi- 
ble, just as in his worse moments he would boast of 
having killed a man. 

The smoke lifted at last, and disclosed the vast num- 
ber of dead and dying that lay on the ground around 
them ; and as the piteous cries of the wounded and the 
frightened howls of the fugitives reached their ears, 
the men felt awed by the magnitude of the deed they 
had done. A long silence followed, and when Corbis, 
with an effort of jocularity, cried out, “Ky-ee-eye! 
Billy Long, the corpse-furnisher down to Portsmouth, 
’d ’a given me a hundred dollars for that job,” although 
no one smiled, all felt relieved. A moment later a 
rifle cracked in one of the embrasures, and an Indian, 
who was but slightly wounded, and had risen to run, 
dropped dead. Mechanically at first a few of the men 
followed this example, picking off every Yaqui who 
moved, and little by little the natural blood-thirstiness 
of the man-animal asserted itself : even the dead bodies 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 201 


were killed over again. “ The black devils might 

be shammin’, after all !” 

Later the bodies were picked up, and, with a few 
barrels of lime, cast all together into an old shaft near 
the Cohuache outcrop ; the remaining space was then 
filled in with rock from the dump, and a cross bearing 
the following tar-painted inscription placed above it : 

Hear lays 

THE BODI8 

OP 463 

INDJEEANS, JAKKIS AND MYOES 

KILT HEAR JULIE 12, 18 — . . 

When the ground had been cleared, the men sepa- 
rated, and Holt went down with Krisch to the lower 
turret, where they spent the night. The next morn- 
ing they were awakened early by an explosion that 
shook the whole hill, and as they rushed to the win- 
dow they saw, above the dense crown of smoke that 
hid from view the old shaft and the upper turret, 
strange things that looked like fragments of human 
bodies, amidst twisted machinery and shattered rocks. 
Two of the miners were running at full speed down 
the path towards them, and from these they learned 
the details of the disaster. 

After the butchery of the preceding day the scout 
Policarpio had remembered that he was a Yaqui, and 
after sending word to the Indian camp, he had mur- 
dered Jack Corbis as he lay asleep beside his gun. He 
was present when the gun was mounted, and had 
learned to take it to pieces ; in the morning some of 
the most important parts were found missing. Mr. 
Tracy had awakened just in time to save Rapsey, over 


202 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

whom the Indian was bending with a machete in his 
hand. After giving the alarm, and on discovering that 
all the wires had been cut, he summoned the men and 
sent them at once down the old shaft to try and bring 
up the third gun, which was standing ready mounted 
in the jpatio of the hacienda. These two miners had 
remained with him, and they were all three at work 
taking the useless gun down when the Indians began 
to show themselves in the cactus-bush around the old 
powder - house. Without manifesting any signs of 
alarm, Mr. Tracy had told them that he was going down 
the shaft to sfet off the dynamite stored there as soon 
as a large number of Indians had collected and begun 
to descend. They were to wait, and, during the tem- 
porary demoralization of the Indians by the explosion, 
to break through and tell Holt to hold out until he 
could rescue him. A large number of Indians must 
have been killed, for the whole top of the mountain 
seemed to have caved in. 

This information fell upon Holt like the blow of a 
sledge. That Tracy was dead there could be not the 
slightest doubt, and the chances of being liberated were 
not worth considering. The men at the mill, hearing 
the explosion and receiving no news from the mine, 
would naturally conclude that all had perished. There 
was now no communication between the two through 
the underground workings; and as the surface was in 
the hands of the Indians, it would be impossible for 
them to cut their way through. He determined, how- 
ever, to bear the burden of this knowledge alone. It 
would only dishearten the men to reveal the truth ; and 
even now some unlooked-for accident might happen in 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 203 


time to save them. He counted them over, and found 
that altogether, besides himself and Krisch, they were 
but five and the girl Masima. This was sufficient for a 
night and a day shift, and with the provisions and am- 
munition on hand they might hold out some time. 
Before this he had felt somewhat uncertain as to his 
behavior in action ; but now, as he reflected that Hew 
England blood was at its best when all seemed lost, it 
gratified him to remember that he was born in Salem, 
of good old stock that had done its duty in ’76, in 1812, 
and later when the stripes of the glorious young flag 
that flapped on the pole above him were to have been 
barred. Pluck thus became a duty, and in the fulfil- 
ment of a duty his Hew England conscience, that most 
ineradicable of Yankee traits, would be sure to stand 
him in good stead. Yet, notwithstanding these com- 
forting reassurances, he could not forget that the bal- 
ance of chances was unequivocally against him, and 
that the application to his case of any equation of prob- 
abilities which he could remember would have fixed his 
annual premium at about ten times the insurance. 

While he was making an inventory of the stock on 
hand — provisions and ammunition — it occurred to him 
that as the quantities were very small, the bulk of these 
must have been stored on the upper level. Whatever 
had been left by the explosion would naturally fall into 
the hands of the Indians if not secured at once. He 
called the men together, explained the situation, and 
proposed that they draw lots among themselves to de- 
termine who should accompany him. Krisch refused 
to be left behind, so after shaking hands all round 
rather solemnly — for since the events of the preceding 


204 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

day the men manifested a growing tendency to con- 
sider present actions as possibly final — the four started 
cautiously on their journey, and at the end of an hour 
of slow crawling on hands and knees reached one of 
the abandoned adobe huts from which they could see 
the shaft’s mouth. 

Of the most prosperous part of the cam.p nothing re- 
mained but a shattered and picturesque ruin. With a 
certain natural sense of fitness, the fragments of the 
monument which Tracy had erected had fallen back 
together over his grave into a pyramid of sufiicient 
magnitude to disdain any explanatory inscription, and 
near this pile stood a group of some fifty Indians, gaz- 
ing awe-stricken and silent at this terrible evidence of 
the white man’s power, greater even to destroy than 
to build. The presence of such a large body of the foe 
of course put a stop to any further operations of the 
foraging party, and they turned to go back to tlie Lib- 
ertad. Suddenly a shot fell, and Dalmasio, an Italian, 
who was walking next to Holt, stumbled and dropped. 
They were not more than two hundred yards from the 
fort, and their first unconscious impulse was to dash 
forward, out of reach of the bullets that had begun to 
whistle and patter around them. Their first conscious 
impulse sent them back to their fallen comrade, whom 
Krisch threw over his shoulders, while the other two 
attacked the pursuers. 

After the first blows all hesitation, all scruples, van- 
ished, and an intense thirst for blood, a savage desire 
to slash and kill that amounted nearly to a frenzy, 
seized upon these two men, who threw themselves reck- 
lessly on the black fiesh before them. The wounds in- 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 205 

flicted by their weapons were not suflSciently deep, 
above all, not suflSciently bloody ; the flash of the pow- 
der must singe the skin of their adversaries or the shot 
did not satisfy them ; and at last Oldham, who in other 
circumstances had always been thought a mild, harm- 
less Pennsylvanian, moved by a sudden fury to bite or 
scratch, cast his arms away, and rushed on the naked 
savages like a mad dog. Little by little he was drawn 
away from Holt ; a heavy blow from one of the ma- 
chetes struck him on the head, nearly stunning him, 
and still flghting he fell on his knees. For a few mo- 
ments his superior strength kept the Indians off; the 
sleeves of his shirt were nearly hacked away, and be- 
neath the reddening, clinging cloth little streams of 
blood ran down his arms and between his Angers ; his 
hands began to slip off the smooth skin of the May os, 
his blows grew weaker and more wild, and at last with 
a little sigh he sank back. Then one of the Indians 
seized him by the hair and pulled at it with all his 
strength, while another hacked at his throat, striking 
him now on the chin, now on the shoulder, in his blind 
fury ; and a third, leaning with all his weight on the 
machete, drove the dull blade through his ribs, and 
twisted it with a horrible gurgling, crunching noise. 

“ Come back. Jack ; for God’s sake come back, man ! 
They are all advancing, and we’ve got them covered.” 

How he got back. Holt never remembered. Which- 
ever way he turned he could see nothing but the bleed- 
ing body of his comrade and the faces of his slayers 
gleaming with fiendish ferocity. The idea of revenge 
was the only one of which he was conscious ; his sole 
preoccupation was to kill, and, thrusting Clarke aside. 


206 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

he pointed the gun and worked it himself for a few 
moments, scarcely realizing what he was doing. Yet 
so great is the force of habit that to his companions he 
appeared as self-possessed as usual. They were amazed 
at his coolness, tacitly recognized that he was really 
their captain, and spoke to him with a certain involun- 
tary deference. When the gun ceased to be effective. 
Holt had it drawn back, and stood before the port-hole 
picking off any Indians within range, and exposing him- 
self recklessly to their fire. Several bullets entered the 
opening, but without touching him, as if the leaden 
messengers themselves recognized in bravery an armor 
more impenetrable than iron or stone. 

By degrees, however, the fever left him, and a great 
lassitude, both physical and mental, overcame him. He 
turned from the window and looked into the room ; 
crouched on the floor at his feet, Masima was holding 
the rifle she had just loaded ; though he had not no- 
ticed her before, she had sat there hour after hour pa- 
tiently wiping and reloading the arms which the men 
handed down to her. Without speaking she looked up 
into her master’s face, and it had a gratefully soothing 
effect upon him ; it was the first kind look he had seen 
that day, and it took him far away from the bloody 
scenes outside. At that moment it seemed strange that 
any one should care for him, and he was deeply moved 
at the thought, which then for the first time suggested 
itself, that she alone of all the women had remained 
behind. 

“ Pobredta!^^ he said, laying his hand gently on her 
head, “you are alone? Where is the grandmother?” 

“ Quien sdbe, Don Juan ? She went away with all 
the women some days ago. I would not go.” 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 207 

“ And why not he asked. The next moment he 
wished he could recall the question ; and when the girl 
answered, softly, half-caressingly, “ Do I not belong to 
you, Don Juanito?” he felt profoundly ashamed of his 
words. Was it not sufficient that she had remained to 
share his fate ? What need had he to make her say 
that of which she was as yet unconscious, but which 
her own spoken words would teach her? At her age 
she would go to sleep a child and awake a woman. 
Heigh-ho! This was the worst thing he had done 
that day ; and he rose wearily to go into the room be- 
low, where they all slept. Dalmasio and Corning were 
dead, and the two corpses, half covered with a blanket, 
lay rigid and uncouth-looking on the brick floor. 

“ Mr. Holt, please, sir,’' said Clarke, coming in from 
the kitchen, as he stood staring blankly at those who 
but a little while ago were standing by his side — 
‘‘ please, sir, old Evans be pretty bad, Mr. Holt. I be 
thinkin’ he want to see you, sir.” 

Holt sat down on the bed by the wounded old tim- 
ber-man, and waited for him to speak. 

“ Mr. Holt,” he said, presently, “ be that you ?” 

“Yes, Ned, old man. Are you badly hurt?” 

“ I be, Mr. Holt — I be,” the man answered, with an 
effort. “Through the left breast — I was standin’ be- 
hind ye.” Then, after a pause, “Ye’ll be writin’ to 
Corn’all soon, Mr. Holt, will ye ? There be two quar- 
ters’ back pay — Mrs. Edward Ivons — at the Miners’ 
Bank — Be you still there, Mr. Holt ?” he added, anx- 
iously, and staring Jack in the face. “ I thought you 
was gone. It’s nigh on sundown, and a trifle dark 
without my glasses. Mr. Holt, how many be left of we ?” 


208 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

“ Four, Ned, counting you. We are melting like 
wax.” 

The old man’s eyes lighted up for a moment, and he 
gasped with a horrible attempt to smile, “But it be 
beeswax, Mr. Holt ; it sticks.” He tried to laugh, but 
was seized with a violent fit of coughing that brought 
the blood to his mouth. Mechanically he wiped his 
lips with the back of his sleeve, and twitched at the 
cloth of his overalls. “Mrs. Ivons,” he muttered again, 
indistinctly. “ Truro, down into Cornwall. Holt ’ll do 
it — Holt — Jack Holt — he be awnest. Holt be. Two 
back quarters. Two year more work here. Go by 
San Francisco this time. The second set in the west 
drift be a ’arf-inch too high. Ah ! be ye talkin’ to 
me?” He breathed stertorously two or three times 
and half raised his arms weakly. His head dropped 
with a slight gurgle, and the old man went home to 
“ Corn’all.” 

During the night they buried them by the dim light 
of the stars, and the three survivors returned to the 
fort, which to them had become all the world. 

And the dull routine of their prison life began. Day 
passed after day, and yet no news of the outside world 
reached them in their silent solitude. The sun shone 
hotly on the white rocks, the rain came down in tor- 
rents, the moon rose and set, and still no tidings came 
to them. The giant Frailes looked down from their 
majestic height, calm, beautiful, impassive, but told 
them nothing. Little plants grew into tall trees, and 
the hills with tropical haste drew on their velvety man- 
tle of verdure. The days grew to weeks, and still 
nothing moved in the deserted Higuerita range. Yet 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 209 

little by little they became accustomed to their loneli- 
ness, and the danger by which they were surrounded 
lost some of its reality. An occasional shot warned 
them of the presence of the Indians in the dense thick- 
ets which covered the once bare dumps, and they did 
not dare to go many steps away from the protecting 
fort. But one morning Clarke discovered a brace of 
guinea-hens gravely crossing the path that led to the 
opposite hill, and, as their provisions were becoming 
rapidly exhausted, he could not resist the temptation 
to shoot and run out to secure his booty. As he bent 
over, a second shot sounded in the brush, and he stag- 
gered forward with a cry. Holt and Krisch, both un- 
armed at the moment, ran out unhesitatingly to pick 
up their comrade, who had now become even more 
than a friend to them, and as they lifted the inanimate 
body and recognized that life had fled, something gave 
way in their hearts ; for the first time since their trials 
began they felt all hope forsake them, and their eyes 
filled with tears. Suddenly they heard footsteps be- 
hind them, and saw two Yaquis brandishing their ma- 
chetes and coming towards them. They were unarmed, 
yet, with that dead body between them, neither for a 
moment thought of flight. A few days more or less — 
what did it matter ? Instinctively each stopped, picked 
up a stone, and waited. The Indians were only a few 
yards away ; ten seconds more and it would probably 
be all over. At that moment a wild shriek from the 
fort caused them to turn ; a flash and a little puff of 
smoke burst from the port -hole, and the foremost 
Yaqui, shot through the head, stumbled and fell for- 
ward against Holt, while the other turned and ran. 
14 


210 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

The men looked at each other and smiled. All was 
not over yet, then ? and with something like a feeling 
of gladness they returned to the house. 

Masimawas still watching from the window with the 
same expression of concentrated ferocity on her little 
face that had so much astonished Holt a few weeks be- 
fore. As he entered she put down the rifle, lifted her 
rebozo, and, with her head thrown back, gazed at him 
silently with her half-closed eyes. The bud had burst ; 
the child was a child no longer ; suddenly the knowl- 
*edge had come. She trembled slightly, lowered her 
eyes, and, bursting into tears, ran from the room. 

The men, too, had understood. Krisch shrugged his 
shoulders, smiled, and muttered to himself, “ It had 
must be so but Holt was silent. If it had been any 
other girl, he too would have shrugged his shoulders, 
smiled perhaps a little more cynically than his friend, 
and accepted the flower which Nature offered him so 
frankly. But apart from his personal feelings in this 
matter, the time and place seemed strangely chosen for 
trifling. What wild freak was this of Master Cupid 
to pass through the Indian lines and play his pranks 
in this house that was so fast becoming a mausoleum ? 

For the next few days Masima shunned him, and yet 
with what infinite tenderness she bound his wounds 
and dressed them ! They were mere scratches, and yet 
had one awkward movement of hers meant death to 
him, she could not have been more careful or her touch 
more delicate. When she pronounced his name, which 
she now did but rarely, her voice softened, and the 
“Don Juanito” sounded like a caress. Krisch had 
more than once detected her gazing for long minutes 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 211 

at her master as no woman had ever looked at him ; 
but when they met his, those soft eyes became so hard 
and cruel that he was startled, and perhaps a little 
frightened. 

Meanwhile the days passed, the provisions disap- 
peared, and still their solitude was unbroken. Above 
them in the silent blue vault the ragged-winged chujpi^ 
lotes sailed smoothly without apparent effort, and cast 
long, sweeping shadow curves over the white plateau, 
or, motionless, hung like black dots in the hot, quivering 
air. On the opposite hills the red deer bounded along 
gracefully far beyond rifle range, and up on the pre- 
cipitous peaks of the Frailes the wild goats scampered 
merrily. Velvety tarantulas picked their way cautious- 
ly over the stones, and the little bobtailed birds shot in 
at the windows and dashed at the slumbering alacranes 
that basked in the sunlight. Lizards ran in and out 
with their gracefully curving tails curled up above 
them, or stopped in the checkered square of light and 
shadow which the window-grating drew on the floor, 
and looked, silent themselves, at the three silent fig- 
ures in the room ; for the silence that surrounded 
them had invaded the house and crept into their 
hearts. 

By degrees, yet rapidly, the end was approaching ; 
the last meal had been shared. Both Holt and Krisch 
were seated in the doorway, careless of the danger to 
which they were thus exposed, and indeed secretly 
hoping that some well-aimed bullet might put an end 
to their misery. Masima was kneeling near them, 
scraping away from the stone the last crumbs of 
dough that still adhered to the metate, when a shadow 


212 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

fell across the threshold. A cry, something like a 
scuffle, and a dull blow — and Masima fell into Holt’s 
arms with her own around his neck, and he held her 
there fainting. From the soft warm breast that lay 
against his own the red blood trickled slowly through 
his open shirt and dropped on to the floor, and the 
passive little head rolled over on his shoulder. Once 
she opened her eyes and looked into his with infinite 
love, until little by little the light died out of them ; 
her lips parted, but she did not speak, and in a last 
spasm of pain she turned abruptly, thrust her hands 
upward into his hair, and slowly drew his head down 
towards her. 

The next day, when they had laid her to rest on the 
hill-side, Holt took Krisch by the hand and told him 
what he had known from the beginning — that there 
never had been any hope. “Julius, old man, forgive 
me for not telling you then,” he said, “ but I thought 
I was doing what was best. Will you forgive me 
now?” 

Before the approach of death, men, especially starv- 
ing men, are apt to be sentimental ; their nervous 
strength is exhausted, and the world, seated securely 
before its desk at home, should not criticise their 
words and feelings according to its every-day indif- 
ferent standard. So it need not be thought strange 
that at this moment both these boys bad tears in 
their eyes, or that Krisch embraced his friend and 
kissed him. 

“ Dscheck, dear friend,” he said, presently, “ I too 
knew it from the first.” 

The day passed slowly, hour by hour, in the usual 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 213 

solemn sunlit silence. Towards dusk Holt went to his 
bed and lay down. The buzzing in his ears and a 
strange inability to finish any thought warned him 
that he was weakening fast. A sensation of physical 
numbness gradually overcame him, and he wondered 
at times whether he were asleep or awake. When 
Krisch bade him good-night the words did not convey 
any intelligent meaning to his mind until several min- 
utes later, and then it seemed to him that some one 
else — some one whom he had not seen for a long 
time — had spoken them. Mingled with visions of 
home, recollections of travel and of trivial conversa- 
tions with chance acquaintances crowded upon him, 
strangely distinct for a moment, and then, without 
apparent transition, merging into others totally un- 
connected with them. It was pitchy dark in the 
room, yet it suddenly seemed to him to be fiooded 
with sunshine — as on the last day he had passed at 
home. He saw the large, white square house, with its 
green blinds, its large veranda and shingle roof ; in 
front, the row of magnificent plumed elms cast the 
lace-work of their shadow on the sunlit road, and in 
the soft green field beyond, dotted with yellow but- 
tercups, the old sorrel mare on which he had learned 
to ride was nibbling the tender grass. The butler, old 
man Kelly, who had played with him when he was a 
child, showed his full white waistcoat at the dining- 
room window, and called to Master John that dinner 
was waiting. The nurse Maggie — It had become 
dark again, and all were seated together in the little 
j.Qora — grandmother’s room, where she had spent the 
evenings of forty years with the stern -looking old 


214 WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 

gentleman whose portrait hung over the mantelpiece. 
From the walls the same large-boned ladies in low- 
necked dresses, and stout gentlemen in snuE-colored 
smallclothes, looked down through the narrow red- 
gold frames just as they did when he was a child in 
petticoats and curls. The same old china vases, the 
same curios — Why, who had put the lights out ? — 
What was that pat-pat outside? — only Masima mak- 
ing tortillas. Masima ! — she did not hear him. How 
sleepy he was ! Suddenly he was at home again, stand- 
ing with his back to the white mantelpiece, with its 
carved medallions and looped garlands of laurel ; he 
was telling them how they had held the mine and 
driven ofE the Indians. How strange it seemed ! How 
had he returned home ? He could not remember then, 
but to-morrow it would come back to him, no doubt. 
How drowsy he was ! Who was that speaking to him ? 
Masima again ! Poor little thing, what was to become 
of her now — now f — why had he said now ? — she had 
saved his life once, long ago — when was it ? — he could 
not remember that either, but Krisch knew all about 
it; he saw the Indian strike — and that was blood on 
liis shirt — warm still — blood. What did she want with 
him ? Yes, yes ; he was coming presently. Then he 
lay back and slept. 

At dawn Krisch awoke and turned over. Du, 
Hscheck!” He waited a moment, and called again: 
“ You, Dscheck ! You are asleep? Dscheck! Poor 
fellow ! he is weary ; he sleeps.” With an effort he 
drew the blanket over his head and turned his face to 
the wall — and all was quiet up at the Higuerita. 

Meanwhile a great battle was being fought in the 


WHY THEY SHUT DOWN AT THE HIGUERITA 215 

plain of Minas Nuevas, and the Indians were slowly 
retreating. Moroyoqiii, the Mayo chief, was dead, and 
before noon Cajeme with his Yaquis began his march 
back to the river, unmolested by the Mexican generals, 
who rightly deemed it a more dangerous undertaking 
to pursue an Indian force than to fight it. When the 
issue of the battle was no longer doubtful, Salcevedo, 
at the head of a hundred and fifty rancheros, took the 
road to Aduana. He had little hope of finding any of 
his friends alive, for the surrounding country had for 
some weeks been in the hands of the enemy, and the 
columns of smoke which could be seen from head- 
quarters in town rising above the ruins of ranchos and 
villages proved how ruthlessly the work of devasta- 
tion was being pursued. He was therefore greatly 
surprised on reaching the bend of the arroyo to see 
the American and Mexican flags still floating above 
the mill buildings. Lowe rode out to meet him, and 
in a few words made his report. 

“We must go to the mine at once,” the Mexican 
answered, and, calling to his brother-in-law, the doc- 
tor, to follow with twenty men, he put his mule to a 
gallop. 

As they neared the foot of the dump they stopped 
a moment and listened eagerly for any sound from 
above. Lowe shouted the names of his friends, but 
only the echo of his own voice answered, and with a 
shake of his head he began the ascent slowly, for now 
he was in no hurry to learn what he feared was the 
truth. A few yards further on, where the path turned, 
he caught sight of the flag hanging limp and motion- 
less from the pole over the office. 


216 WMF THEY SHUT DOWiY AT THE HIGUEKITA 

“ By , they’ve held it !” he cried, slapping his 

thigh and driving the spurs into his mule. “Come 
along, boys. Hullo, Krisch ! Holt ! Jack ! we are com- 
ing ! Get up there, you brute ! Anda ! anda 

The others galloped behind him, shouting excitedly. 
Before the open door of the office they pulled up. No 
one had come out, no one had answered, and for a min- 
ute the men hesitated before dismounting. 

“Doctor,” Lowe said, in a low voice, and without 
looking up, “ you go in first.” 

Ortiz got off his mule, removed his spurs leisurely, 
and threw them down on the brick veranda. Then he 
took off his hat and went in, while the indifferent mozos 
formed a semicircle around the other two and waited. 
Presently Ortiz returned, and stood in the doorway roll- 
ing a cigarette. 

“ There are two,” he said, simply. “ They will live.” 


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SANCHO MITARRA 


0 OME years ago I passed my summer vacation in 
^ the north of Spain, studying the battle-grounds of 
the last Carlist war. Sketching and collecting notes, 

1 loitered about the picturesque towns which, by the 
loss of their ancient charters, had paid so high a price 
for their loyalty to Don Carlos, until eventually I 
reached Irun, where I remained a week. During the 
daytime the large, low-studded eating-room of the inn 
was entirely deserted, but towards evening quite a 
number of men were in the habit of dropping in, 
singly or in groups, and a few minutes later the noise 
became deafening. Among these guests 1 noticed es- 
pecially a fine-looking, rather silent person, who, to 
judge from the deference with which the others treat- 
ed him, must have been a local celebrity. His face 
was apparently cut in two by an irregular scar, rather 
frightful to look at until he smiled, when the ugly 
purplish lines seemed to disappear in the wrinkles 
about his mouth. I was anxious to get a good sketch 
of him, but succeeded only after many unsatisfactory 
attempts, and I was about to close my book when a 
young man, who had been looking over my shoulder, 
exclaimed : 

‘‘ Ah, senor, what would I not give for that por- 
trait !” 


220 


SANCHO MITARRA 


“ Cdhallero^'* I answered, “ it is yours ; and I esteem 
the compliment of your request so far above the value 
of the drawing that you must allow me to consider 
myself your debtor.” My real pay lay in the pleasure 
this answer gave me, and I felt kindly towards the 
man who had afforded rile an opportunity of making 
such orthodox use of my Spanish. 

So we fell into conversation, and before leaving he 
handed* me his card, on which I read the name Simon 
Munoz, and below, in brackets, the word jpoeta. He 
was assistant editor of the local paper, knew every- 
body, and seemed astonished when, having told me 
the name of the man with the scar, I asked further 
about him. “ Is it possible,” he said, “ that you have 
not heard of Sancho Mitarra ? In that case, sir, you 
must allow me to offer you a little sketch which I 
have written about him, in exchange for the portrait 
which you so generously gave me.” 

The next morning the manuscript was brought up 
to my room with my chocolate, and as a heavy rain 
confined me to the house, I translated it into Eng- 
lish. It was as follows : 


I 

Over a thousand years ago, or, to be more pedantic, 
A.D. 872, the Gascons, being unable to obtain a consul 
from France, and unwilling to elect one at home, sent 
over into Castile for Sancho Garcia, called Sancho Mi- 
tarra, or the Terrible. As King of Pampelona and 
Navarre he ruled over them for nearly forty years, 
gaining great renown not only as a brave Christian 


SANCHO MITARRA 


221 


soldier in his wars against the Moors, but as a wise and 
strong-handed ruler at home. From this good king 
Sancho Mitarra, the brass-founder of Irun, is directly 
descended, as it were easy to prove by the old chron- 
icles of [N’avarre; but as he is a republican on princi- 
ple, it gives him less pleasure to reflect upon the dis- 
tinction of his ancestors than upon the sturdiness of a 
family that has endured a thousand years without a 
break. 

Indeed, as for his being descended from a king, it 
seems difficult to understand how it could be other- 
wise. For, supposing that Sancho had been the only 
one in Spain thirty generations ago, and each of his 
descendants had produced but two children, a simple 
calculation shows that there should be one thousand 
and seventy-three odd million of these descendants in 
the world to-day. Now, as the population of Spain is 
less than twenty millions, every inhabitant must have 
some fifty-three or more claims to royal ancestry — a 
fact which might in some cases account for the list of 
titles borne by our more modest grandees of the first 
class. 

It is equally indisputable that no fortune, however 
great, could bear subdivision on such a magnificent 
scale ; hence the poverty, shared by Sancho’s father 
with so many other distant members of the royal 
family, seems reasonable enough. This worthy citi- 
zen was by trade a fisherman, part owner and captain 
of the Guerendiain^ a stanch but ugly vessel belong- 
ing to the Basque cod fleet. His house was in the 
oldest quarter of the town, behind the church ; and in 
the dirty kitchen, redolent of the mingled perfumes 


222 


SANOHO MITARRA 


of tar, garlic, and tobacco-smoke, old Mitarra told 
strangely incredible tales of the “ Americas ” beyond 
the sea. The priest, the postmaster, the captain of 
the customs, and a couple of retired smugglers were 
wont to meet there at all hours of the day when the 
old man was at home, but usually only after the even- 
ing when the family was alone. 

Among these good people Sancho grew up, though 
it can hardly be said that he developed, until, about 
the time he was twelve years old, the quiet town was 
thrown into a state of consternation by the news that 
the whole fleet had been lost off the Banks. The sail- 
or had left but little money — indeed, barely enough to 
support his widow ; and thus Sancho had to give up 
tossing knives and playing ball for the less gentle- 
manly but more practical employment of blowing the 
bellows in his uncle’s smithy, which enabled him to 
contribute towards the family expenses. If it be 
argued that his appetite was altogether out of propor- 
tion to his contributions, it were but right to give 
him credit for a cheerful disposition, a coaxing laugh 
which compelled sympathy, and a merry wit, always 
at the service of the household. And whoever has 
lived on meagre fare and in the shadow of sorrow will 
testify that a merry company around the pot makes as 
good a sauce as hunger. 

Matters went on smoothly for a few years following 
the old flsherman’s disappearance, and indeed up to 
the date of Sancho’s sixteenth birthday, when, coming 
of age suddenly, as it is the custom for kings and 


Species of boiled meat with vegetables. 


SANCHO MITARRA 


223 


possibly for their descendants to do, the ambition of 
conquest began to disturb his dreams. He renounced 
the hammer and anvil as being inconsistent with the 
pursuit of glory, and, having successively exacted trib- 
ute from the sea in the shape of fish, and from the 
mountains in the shape of game, he finally joined the 
brotherhood of the contrahdndistds^ among whom he 
made not a little money. During the periodical in- 
tervals of rest that followed each expedition he fell in 
love with a beautiful, poor, but haughty girl, Elvira 
Almalta of Ragosa, whom he besought to become his 
wife. But, dazzled by the brilliant life of the great 
bull-fighters whom she had often admired, the girl 
had long before vowed to marry no man who had not 
acquired renown in the arena — the renown most dear 
to Spanish hearts — and Sancho then and there re- 
solved that Spain should ring again with the glory 
of Mitarra. He had succeeded with so little effort in 
everything that he had hitherto undertaken that the 
new problem before him neither awed nor troubled 
him ; and, with his characteristic impetuosity, he pre- 
pared to leave on the morrow for Pampeluna, where 
the great Lagartijo was at home. The postmaster 
gave him some sound advice; the priest his blessing 
and an antique drawing, representing bull -fighters 
attending mass before the corridd; while Elvira gave 
him her promise (conditionally) and a kiss. With 
these presents, and an immense fund of confidence in 
his own resources, Sancho started on his apprentice- 
ship. 

For more than a year nothing was heard from the 
young man directly. Under an assumed name he 


224 


SANCHO MITARRA 


appeared in several minor bnll-fights in remote pro- 
vincial towns, and there he probably acquitted himself 
so well as to compel the notice of the great Frascuelo; 
for when the now famous corrida of the 9th of Au- 
gust was advertised throughout the country, Elvira’s 
toreador-Qxxzxi\^ was announced on the play-bills under 
his own name of Sancho Mitarra. 


II 

It is a gala day. A great lady, the greatest in the 
land, has brought her infant son to witness his first 
bull-fight and learn early Jn life to accept the tribute 
of blood shed in his honor. Cloth of gold and crimson 
velvet hang in heavy folds from the front of the gov- 
ernor’s gallery, and glorious silken banners, embroid- 
ered with the royal arms, flap lazily on each side of 
the wooden box which a poet-laureate might mistake 
for a throne. Gorgeous uniforms, mingled with daz- 
zling costumes, make a background fit for a king’s por- 
trait; and to right and left, as far as the shade tempers 
the heat of the summer afternoon, the magnificent 
fancy of old Spain shines forth once again after years 
of courteous oblivion. The stage setting seems per- 
fect. The play that is to be enacted belongs to the rep- 
ertory of a forgotten, so-called barbarous, age, and the 
audience has arrayed itself accordingly ; perhaps as an 
apology for its presence, perhaps to bear out the illu- 
sion of a revival, perhaps merely because its gold and 
crimson harmonizes with the gold of the sunlight on 


SANCHO MITARRA 


225 


the yellow sand, and the crimson of the blood that is 
to flow. 

Facing the picturesque wisdom of the realm, that 
shines in dignified magnificence on the shady side of 
the circus, the picaresque and ragged populace, brill- 
iant only by its apt wit, undulates impatiently beneath 
the glaring sun — Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, types 
of a past age, if you will, but also types of modern 
Spain, no more obsolete than the bloody game which 
both await. 

In the dazzling arena below, a fife-and-drum band 
walks solemnly round and round, heedless of well-aimed 
oranges or equally well-pointed gibes. In the droning 
buzz of ten thousand talking people, the rumble of the 
drums is completely lost, and the thin, clear, querulous 
notes of the pipers sound ridiculously weak and un- 
suited to the occasion — a discord which establishes the 
reality of the scene, destroying the illusion of a perfect 
stage performance, but investing it with the keen in- 
terest of an event in real life. All along the corridor 
that surrounds the arena, separating the valla from the 
wall above which the public is seated, the privileged 
amateurs are eagerly discussing the chances of the 
fight, prophesying the behavior of each bull, and bet- 
ting on the number of passes before the final stroke. 
The cornet of the band blows a preliminary blast and 
the music bursts forth ; the ring is hurriedly cleared, 
and in two lines the cuadrilla makes its entrance, to 
right and left. For a brief moment the chattering of 
the audience ceases, and in the partial silence each tore- 
ador^ preceded by his shadow, gravely struts across the 
sand to his appointed place. An alguazU^ dressed in 
15 


226 


SANCHO MITARRA 


black velvet, gallops in at the head of a short, mounted 
procession and urges his chestnut horse to rear, while 
the crowd jeers at him for his theatrical prowess. The 
key of the torll gleams for a moment in the air and 
disappears in the horseman’s pointed felt hat. A clat- 
ter and a scurry — a few taunting cries — a clashing of 
the closing gates — and the formalities of the overture 
are over. 

Before a battle, before a duel, or before a bull-fight 
there is always one moment of silent recueillem^ent^ 
during which the contestants, veterans or raw recruits, 
instinctively weigh the chances. God only knows the 
issue, and during this last respite man realizes the pos- 
sibility of the immediate future. Even the espada 
Frascuelo, Lagartijo, or Mazzantini acknowledges to 
himself that there is a certain solemnity in this gam- 
bling with death. Before the public he drapes his gor- 
geous capa about him in pretty falling folds ; secretly 
he crosses himself; and the public, wdiose wonderful in- 
tuition justifies the saying Vox populi^ vox Dei^ appre- 
ciates the hidden anxiety without heeding the ostenta- 
tious affected indifference. 

Vaya ! The gate is open, the suspense is over. The 
angry animal dashes in furiously — smooth-limbed, deep- 
chested, superbly strong and defiant — and the multi- 
tude heave a sigh of relief. The duel is begun. Fif- 
teen weak, intelligent, skilful animals, dressed in gold 
and silver and silk, against a single one in sombre satin 
— a large, lithe-flanked monster, ignorant of its might, 
and confident in its ignorance. 

Among the chulos facing the bull, Sancho stands in 
green and gold. It is his first appearance before a 


SANCHO MITARRA 


227 


picked audience, and he feels nervous, yet confident of 
distinguishing himself if only the opportunity offers. 
In the farthest box on the shady side he recognizes 
his mother and Elvira in the front row ; behind them 
the postmaster, the collector of customs, and, unless he 
is much mistaken, his old friend the priest, nodding at 
him from behind Elvira’s fan. But he has no leisure 
now to look up at them, for the bull is near him. He 
throws out his mantle, the animal charges, misses, and 
passes on, while the handsome boy, avoiding the thrust 
of the long, polished horns, stands draped in the gaudy 
silk He has barely moved, and the crowd cries, “ Well 
done !” but forgets him again as the bull charges the 
nearest 'picador^ raising steed and rider from the 
ground. 

As the play proceeds the excitement grows, and the 
bull-fighters, spurred on by the despotic fancy of the 
public, vie with one another in daring and skill. Poor 
Sancho, alas ! is doomed to disappointment. He han- 
dles his capa perfectly ; plants his handerillaa graceful- 
ly, correctly, fearlessly, yet not more so than the others 
in the ring. With them he receives a passing tribute 
of applause; but as one bull after another is goaded 
into fury, and finally backed up against the fence to be 
killed, the great espada alone earns the wildly enthusi- 
astic approbation of the audience. Sancho realizes that 
he is yet a novice, and that fame is not for the ob- 
scure. He feels that he could kill the bull as gracefully 
as the great man upon whom all honors and presents 
are showered ; but he must bide his time, and rise upon 
the ladder of renown rung by rung. What he has done 
Tv^s well done, but it is nothing that will be renjeu)- 


228 


SANCHO MITARRA 


bered. In tlie morrow’s paper his name will appear 
only as one of the cuadrillai the criticism of the con- 
noisseurs will not condescend to notice him, and Elvira 
will still answer, Not yet.” Five bulls have been de- 
spatched, but one remains; and Opportunity, with her 
short front hair, has placed only the bald part of her 
cranium within his reach. Like all men of a sanguine 
temper, he is easily depressed ; and as the doors of the 
toril open for the entrance of the sixth bull, Sancho 
has well-nigh lost all hope and interest in the game. 

The bull is small, dark-robed, well-armed, and bears 
the brand of Veragua. In a few bounds lie reaches the 
centre of the arena, and pauses to look around. The 
glaring light after the darkness of his cage, the noisy 
clamoring of ten thousand excited spectators, and these 
two-legged moving things in gaudy colors, the like of 
which he has never seen before, arouse his curiosity 
and astonish him. By the nervous twitching of his 
tail and the quick, sharp movements of his head it is 
evident that he is no “coward.” The toreadores in- 
stinctively recognize him for an exceedingly dangerous 
adversary, and so it is with more than ordinary pru- 
dence that they spread their cajpas before him and run 
away. But all this fails to move him : slowly and 
steadily he advances, looking at the pian, not at the 
rag. Now it is Sancho’s turn. The bull throws up his 
head, stops, then plunges forward with such lightning- 
like rapidity that the boy feels it is too late to run. 
The long, smooth horns are already on each side of 
him ; and, scarcely realizing what he is doing, Sancho 
leaps forward upon the animal’s back, and a second 
later to the ground. How they applaud ! how they yell ! 


SANCHO MITARRA 


229 


But he has no time to think, for the bull is coming at 
him again, heedless of the others who seek to intercept 
him ; and now Sancho knows that the animal has sin- 
gled him out, and that the light is merely a duel be- 
tween them. The case is rare, but he has heard of 
such ; the danger is great, but he is not afraid ; the 
chances of his escaping unscathed are few, but he feels 
confident and happy, for at last his opportunity has 
come. He fiings away his useless capa and turns to 
run, not towards the refuge, the huTladero^hxxX, straight 
towards the centre of the arena, while the older men 
shake their heads : a clever bull and a rash youth, there 
is but one ending to that tale, and a sad one at best. 
The spectators are beginning to understand, and hold 
their breath. During the race across the sand not a 
sound is heard in the vast amphitheatre, but the men 
lean forward and the women hold their fans up to 
their faces ready to shut out the sight. Suddenly, in 
the very centre of the arena, Sancho turns, stands, and 
stretches out one hand with a commanding gesture, and 
the bull, hesitant and startled, stops dead in his wild 
rush onward, and, stemmed on his outstretched fore- 
legs, gazes in amazement at the slim figure that defies 
him. Ha ! what a glorious group ! Strength, grace, 
beauty, courage, and such movement, suddenly fixed as 
though in bronze ! And now it is gone, as the first 
low growl of admiration bursts into a thunder of the 
wildest, most frantic applause. The ten thousand spec- 
tators rise as one man to their feet ; the “ sun ” and 
the “ shade ” are equally carried away by emotion, and 
the most dignified grandees re-echo the very cries of 
the masses. Even the cuadrilla forgets itself, and the 


230 


SANCHO MITARRA 


bull, bewildered by the extraordinary clamor, wheels 
about and dashes at the nearest picador, hurling man 
and horse against the tahlas in his mad onslaught. He 
has killed them both! But what is that to him or to the 
crowd ? As he turns he still sees before him the thing 
in green and gold, and the next moment the sharp- 
pronged handerillas are quivering in his flesh. 

‘‘ La siUa ! la silla * yells the crowd. Its kindly 
sympathy for the skilful boy has made room for a less 
generous curiosity. Saiicho has proved himself to be 
a master; now let him show what he can do. If he has 
in him the elements of a great bull-flghter, let him be 
tested. It is cruel to demand “Za sZZZa” with such a 
bull; but Sancho now belongs to the public, and an ex- 
cited, blood-thirsty crowd knows neither sympathy nor 
sentimentality. If he succeeds, the greater be his 
honor ; if he fails — well, then, he should not have led 
them to suppose him greater than he was. In this mo- 
ment of over-excitement the injustice, the cruel self- 
ishness of the argument, are lost even on Sancho, in- 
toxicated with applause and suddenly earned success ; 
even on his mother, too Spanish to think of danger 
when her son is offered an opportunity for distinction ; 
and even on Elvira, whose lover is now surpassing the 
ideal torero of her dreams. 

Again, as Sancho takes his seat facing the bull, a 
solemn hush prevails, and the silence seems to be more 

* The torero sits in a chair (dlla) and awaits the bull’s charge ; 
he holds the handerillas (sharp-pronged darts with points) before 
him, and, in a sitting posture, plants them in the bull’s shoulder — a 
most dangerous feat. Nearly all who attempt it rise before the 
bull is near them. 


SANCHO MITARRA 


231 


impressive for the clamor that preceded. The older 
bull-fighters, with their cajpas unfolded, stand ready for 
an emergency. He raises his arms and poises the 
sharp-pronged darts; a dash, a plunge, a few half- 
smothered cries, and the chair flies upward through 
the air to alight forty feet away, while Sancho seems 
to be standing on the very spot he occupied before 
the charge. The green and gold ribbons dangling 
from the bull’s neck alone show how sure was the 
boy’s aim and how steady his hand. A murmur of 
incredulity, more flattering than the deafening tumult 
that follows, sweeps over the benches, and hats, fans, 
jewels, and cigars rain down into the ring. All re- 
straint seems loosened; all timidity gone from the 
most timid ; young girls, with flushed faces and flash- 
ing eyes, laugh hysterically and call out the hero’s 
name. Even the haughty Elvira rises, unclasps her 
bracelet, and leaning forward with a cry that tells 
Sancho how real is his dream, she flings the token far 
out on the sand, where, heedless of all danger, the boy 
kneels and kisses the precious gift ; for by this sign he 
knows that she has yielded. 

Once more he miraculously avoids the bull, who 
charges at him from behind, and panting, exhausted, 
but inexpressibly happy, he leans against the 'callay 
listening absent-mindedly to the compliments show- 
ered upon him. His part in the performance is over, 
for the cowed animal now sullenly faces his tormen- 
tors on the spot where he has chosen to die, and the 
espada is advancing, sword in hand, to give him the 
coup de grace. But, to the surprise of all, he passes 
by the bull, and taking Sancho by the hand he offers 


232 


SANCHO MITARRA 


him the muleta. One bull more or less is of little im- 
portance to his glory, and should this boy become a 
great man he will remember his master’s kindness 
gratefully; if, on the other hand, the future does not 
justify the day’s promise, the bravos of the crowd 
that applaud his generosity are as pleasing to him now 
as had they been delayed a minute to applaud his skill. 

And now the parts are reversed. The man attacks, 
the bull defends himself; he is weary with the gigan- 
tic efforts of the last half-hour, weary with loss of 
blood, weary of attacking an ever-vanishing foe. Sul- 
lenly, with lowered head and watchful eyes, he follows 
the undulating motion of the red rag before him, and 
listlessly attempts to reach it with his horns. A sharp 
prick on the nose once more rouses his rage ; for the 
last time he charges ; the long, flexible blade is buried 
in his flesh, and as his strength flows away with his 
life’s blood the brave beast slowly kneels before his 
conqueror. The day is done, and Sancho turns to of- 
fer the bull to his lady, thus moving a step nearer to 
his fallen foe — dying, but, alas ! not dead. In his im- 
patient joy he has forgotten that that last moment be- 
fore death is the most dangerous of the fight. Even 
as he raises his hand towards Elvira’s box he is hurled 
to the ground, and as the two heroic animals sink 
quivering together on the sand, a mighty, passionate 
roar bursts from the fickle multitude : ‘‘ Toro, toro / 
Bravo, toro /” 


SANCHO MITARRA 


233 


III 

Fob many months Sancho was confined to his bed, 
unable to move ; for, besides the great gash across his 
face, he had received two deep and dangerous wounds, 
and during this long time both Elvira and his friends 
were constantly at his bedside. It was then that he 
read “ Don Quixote,” a work which made such an im- 
pression upon his mind that to this day you will 
rarely meet him without a volume in his pocket, 
though he knows the greater part of it by heart. Nor 
is it doubtful that he then acquired the philosophy of 
contentment which is such a noticeable trait in his 
character, as well as his love for good Spanish litera- 
ture, of which his knowledge is extraordinary in a 
man of his schooling. 

When he had recovered sufiiciently, he was married 
in the old church by the house, and the wedding was 
an occasion for great rejoicing in Irun. Many mem- 
bers of the cuadrilla, as one of which Sancho’s name 
had become known throughout the length and breadth 
of Spain, were present at the banquet following the 
ceremony, and which was offered by the town. Old 
Salazar, as a representative of the profession, made an 
elaborate speech, in which he said that, having begun 
his career in so brilliant a fashion, it was Sancho Mi- 
tarra’s duty to continue and become, as he naturally 
must, the greatest torero the world had ever seen. 


234 


SANCHO MITARRA 


Certainly no nnan, Pepe Hillo and El Tato included, 
had done more in a single day than had Sancho Mi- 
tarra, whom he was proud to call his friend, and 
whom as an older man he felt authorized to question 
about his future plans. 

“ Friends,” answered the bridegroom, as he laid his 
hand on Elvira’s head, “I went into the arena not to fight 
bulls, but to satisfy the lady of my heart ; and now, 
‘as we have loaves, let us not go looking for cakes.’ 
Glory is a fine thing, no doubt, but we cannot leave it 
to our children. Like truth, it lies at the bottom of a 
deep well ; and, as the proverb says, ‘ The pitcher that 
goes often to the well is sure to lose either handle or 
spout,’ a proof of which I shall carry on my face un- 
til the curate can do me more good than the baker. 
As for riches, ‘four yards of Cuenca frieze are warmer 
than four of Segovia broadcloth ;’ and while counting 
the cobwebs on the ceiling I figured that I could earn 
the frieze more surely in a modest shop than the 
broadcloth in the amphitheatre. Thus, friends, let no 
man be disappointed in my resolution to become a 
brass-founder, for every one is as God has made him, 
and oftentimes a great deal worse.” 

Which accounts for Sancho’s wearing a blouse in- 
stead of a gold-embroidered jacket. 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 


/ 


THE STOEY OF TEES PALACIOS 


T3ETWEEN Santiago de Yeragna and the little port 
of Agua Dulce, that lies near the mouth of the 
Agiia Dulce Eiver, the ground falls in regular ter- 
races, shelving towards the coast. During the dry sea- 
son, when the ruts of the ox-carts and the rough, up- 
churned cattle trails have become filled in with plants, 
the road is easy, and a good horse will make the jour- 
ney in eight hours — five in the morning and three 
towards sunset. The interval is dozed away in the 
shade of some clump of huge mangoes that rise from 
the swelling surface of the San Selina plain like giant 
fungi in a desolate graveyard. Two or three times a 
month during the local summer long wagon and pack 
trains, with all their attendant noise and bustle, wind 
slowly down to the coast ; but, as a rule, the vast plain 
is silent and deserted. 

One hot morning in April, a horseman dismounted 
by the shallow creek that drains the plateau, loosened 
the dncha^ and removed the bit from the horse’s 
mouth to let it drink. Then, leading the animal by the 
halter, he leisurely strolled towards the nearest clump 
of mangoes, where he began to unpack his load. This 
consisted of two fighting cocks, tied up in old straw 
hats, and slung one on either side of the saddle; a 
bunch of green bananas, several gourds and pans, a 


238 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 


cotton umbrella, a cavalry sword, and finally a very old, 
small, but apparently heavy leather valise — all of which 
he stowed away among the roots of the tree, and cov- 
ered with his saddle gear. 

The traveller was a tall, spare mulatto, quite seventy 
years old, yet still strong and quick of movement. Al- 
though dressed only in a white cotton shirt that liung 
loosely over his canvas drawers, there was a certain dig- 
nity about the man entirely out of keeping with the 
poverty of his appearance. On his left foot he wore 
an old Bliicher shoe, armed with a silver spur, while the 
right was bare. An enormous ragged straw hat, bat- 
tered entirely out of shape, was driven down to his 
eyes, though evidently not for the sake of concealment, 
for as soon as he had picketed his horse, he fiung down 
his rags and walked down to the creek, where he bathed 
quickly but thoroughly, the while talking aloud to him- 
self, now in a deep bass voice, now in a high quavering 
falsetto. 

The place was evidently familiar to him, for he 
wasted no time in looking around. When he returned 
from the creek he cleaned up the little oven of stones 
built against the rock behind the mango, started a fire, 
then came back to liberate his fighting cocks, which he 
fed and fondled a little, speaking to them caressingly, 
and holding their heads under his ragged moustache. 
He seemed excited and happy, for he oft^n interrupted 
his monologue to gesticulate or laugh. Once even he 
laid down his gourd full of pinole^ uncovered the old 
valise, and weighed it carefully. The weight seemed 
to satify him, for with a sweeping gesture of his right 
arm he addressed the vast, silent wilderness around him, 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 


239 


“ At last !” he cried. “ I shall see her, my little dar- 
ling, my little Teresita, jewel of my soul ! I shall see 
her— I shall see her ! Ah, Teresa, you said Jive thou- 
sand ! I bring nearly ten. Si, senores, nearly ten thou- 
sand dollars in gold ! Have I grown old, perhaps ? 
Have I grown weak, perhaps? Yes, no doubt I have 
grown both old and weak. But my arm is still strong 
enough to handle hammer and drill ; my hand is still 
cunning to twirl the hatea, and swash off the sand from 
the gold. Ah, Teresa, my little girl, I shall see you 
once more ! And then — well, then there will be room 
enough for the old negro among these hills — room 
enough for the old man to go to rest. Who will be 
ashamed of his rags here ? Who will laugh at his 
monkey face, with its scars and wrinkles ? In the de- 
serted rock gorges, when the time comes, there will be 
room for the old white horse and for the old negro. 

Yes, there will be room ” 

He stopped suddenly, his arm in mid-air, his head 
raised. In his eyes there was a distant look, fixed 
upon things far beyond the horizon. The sullen silence 
of the hot noon surrounded him as with a wall of quiv- 
ering heat, and gradually, as if overcome by an irre- 
sistible rising tide, the old man sank upon the ground, 
his head on his knees, and dim, fancy pictures in his 
greedy eyes. Above the steel-blue coating of the plain 
the distant purple hills rested heavily upon the hori- 
zon. The blotches of color made by the tree clumps 
grew fainter and fainter, until they seemed to swim 
like puffs of vapor in a sea of molten lead, and the sad 
noises of the tropical landscape hushed singly beneath 
the relentless sun. In comparison with the glare out- 


240 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 


side, the green shade of the majestic, motionless mango 
seemed damp and deep, like some diver’s refuge be- 
neath the sea surface — a region of slumber and quiet, 
full of the intense, overpowering stillness of the tropi- 
cal noon. One by one the living things jdelded, re- 
luctant, yet powerless to resist, and one by one they 
lay down on the soft bed of dried leaves to sleep. 

The old negro Tres Palacios alone remained awake. 
Yet he also was dreaming of the past — his own past — 
which was dream-land to him. His life had been so 
active, he had always lived so intensely in the present, 
that the leisure which is necessary to retrospection had 
been impossible ; and now it seemed as though for the 
first time nature’s ledger lay open before him, at the 
page of his account with her. 

Dim and indistinct he saw high on a hill the veranda 
of a great white house with pillared front. Before the 
hall door stood a tall, handsome man in riding costume, 
talking angrily, his whip raised high in his uplifted 
hajid. Below, kneeling on the steps, a negress was 
weeping and holding a child in her outstretched arms. 
Then the whip fell; the vaquero laughed; a purple 
welt sprang up across the woman’s bare bosom ; and 
Tres Palacios instinctively raised his hand to his face, 
and started to his feet. It was a dream, of course, a 
fancy, a reminiscence, perhaps ; but who was there to 
tell? . . . 

And then a bamboo hut, covered with the broad, 
fresh-smelling palm leaves weighted down with loam. 
Before the hut, a barren hill ; and at the bottom a 
spring surrounded with half-dead mesquites and tall. 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 241 

swaying palms. A round water- jug to be filled, and 
a boy struggling up the hill under the weight. A 
laugh, a taunt, a fiash of steel, and the scoffer squirm- 
ing on the ground, while the red pool about his shoul- 
ders grew larger and larger as he lay in tlie dust and 
became more quiet. . . . But it was all very dim, very 
indistinct. ... 

Then the broad savanna, with its web of creeks, its 
rugged ravines, and irregular hills ; its smoothly round- 
ed clumps of trees above the well-bottoms ; its chang- 
ing atmosphere, irresistibly heavy during the hot noon- 
day solitude, soft and caressing when the flames of tlie 
camp-fire leaped up around the pot at night; the wild 
savanna, . . . peopled with strange spirits, whose names 
none dared to mention above a whisper, but to whose 
imaginary tales all the wild outlaws listened in silent 
wonderment, recognizing the magic of this illusory 
music that inspired them with a fierce, intoxicating 
sense of freedom as the sun rose, and with a creeping 
feeling of superstitious fear as the darkness closed in 
upon them, advancing from east to west like a tangible 
wall; a music that struck strange chords of reminis- 
cence, calling up uncanny visions that made them 
shudder; sudden flashes of firearms; and, in the twi- 
light, dead bodies gazing face upward at the sky, as 
deeply buried in their shroud of loneliness as had they 
been ten feet below ground. . . . The lurid glow of a 
smouldering rancho, and beyond the swaying smoke 
forms of flying horsemen ; despairing cries of kid- 
napped women thrown across the saddle; and in the 
distance the answering wail of the prairie-wolf. . . . 
Voices of the storm, the angry tyrant of the desert ; 

16 


242 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 


voices of the flood ; voices from above and beyond . . . 
a wonderful choir, singing more of terror and of sad- 
ness than of joy, yet always beautiful, solemn, awe- 
inspiring. . . : 

Then the long, lazy life on the bosom of the great 
Magdalena River. . . . 

And suddenly, Baranquilla, clear, white, distinct, in 
a flood of sunshine. . . . 

At last the old man remembered. Yet even now 
that he saw things clearly, it was as one sees them in a 
dream, with a lurking consciousness of their unreality. 
The years passed swiftly before him, with their endless 
tale of violence and crime, bloodshed and debauch, 
when the wild animal passions that doubled his colos- 
sal strength and endurance controlled him absolutely, 
and made of him a flend in human shape. Sailor or 
pirate, soldier or outlaw, miner or gambusino^ Tres 
Palacios had left a bloody trail behind him. He lived 
in the towns when the revolutionary party was success- 
ful, and betook himself to the hills to await the next 
pronunciamiento whenever the government obtained 
the upperhand. And from these hills lie and his men 
came down to levy toll on the inhabitants of the plain. 

Once, without himself knowing why, he had rescued 
a child from a burning rancho, and as he played with 
the helpless, passive little bundle, it had occurred to 
him that this new pet was different from any he had 
had before. Tres Palacios was absolutely devoid of 
moral sense. He had hitherto looked upon babies as 
being no more than human puppies or kittens ; but 
towards this particular one he felt differently, and the 
new sensation shamed and embarrassed him to such an 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 


243 


extent that he was tempted to throw the thing into 
some liole, and be rid of it. Yet some time during the 
following night he quietly saddled his horse, and with- 
out notifying any of his men, took the nearest road to 
Santiago, where he alighted before the house of Nina 
Tolosa. 

“ Here is something I want you to look after, Nina,” 
he began, in his usual bullying way, and speaking in 
his gruffest voice. “ I’ve tried it these three days, and 
I don’t like it. Here is some money, and when that’s 
gone I’ll bring more. Adios 

And before the old woman had recovered from her 
astonishment he had made his waj^ outside, and was 
busy tightening the cincha. At the last moment he 
walked quickly back into the house, took the baby up 
in his arms, and smiled at it while he twisted its soft 
little fingers one by one. After a little while he laid 
it down carefully, hesitated a minute, and finally bent 
over to kiss it. Then he remembered that he was not 
alone, and turned savagely on the old woman, who 
stood looking at this scene in silent wonderment. 

“ Nina !” he yelled into her ear, and pointed his fin- 
ger at her face, “ if that thing dies. I’ll kill you !” 

Six months later Tres Palacios appeared again in 
Santiago, and had a long interview with the baby and 
its nurse. He had brought with him a bag of gold 
from the washings, and seemed much astonished when 
told that it was not needed, as the first sum of money 
was still nearly intact. Until the Nina explained to him 
how little was really required, he was disposed to be- 
lieve that his pet had not been properly treated, and 
this he was ready to resent. He was equally astonished 


244 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 


to learn that the thing was a girl, and had been bap- 
tized Teresa, it having been on that saint’s daj that 
tlie bab}^ had been brought to town. On the whole, 
however, he was pleased. He deposited his gold with 
Don Ciicho Garcia for safe-keeping, and, much to that 
gentleman’s surprise, he asked him man j questions con- 
cerning the education of his girls; also about convents, 
schools, and such matters generally. At bottom this 
middle-aged bandit was deeply ashamed of himself and 
of his feelings; yet in a vague, unexpressed way he 
felt satisfied with the present course of events; and 
when some of his former comrades urged him to join 
them in a raid beyond the border he refused, as much 
to his own astonishment as to theirs. Of right and 
wrong his conceptions were strangely incomplete ; his 
philosophy of life was as logical and direct as that of a 
wild animal, which, wanting, takes whatever may be 
within its reach. So now he could have given no bet- 
ter reason for refusing to do wrong than lack of appe- 
tite. 

Money he needed more than ever before, but it must 
be money that should keep. He was supei^stitious 
enough to believe that stolen riches are and must be 
easily, quickly spent, his own experience being in con- 
firmation of that belief, and he thus determined to 
abandon the highway for the gulch, and to exchange 
his pistol for a pan. The Indian washings in the 
north were supposed to be very rich, but hitherto 
they had been protected by the animosity of the na- 
tives, who killed all intruders. To Tres Palacios this 
argument was a forcible one, but in favor of the vent- 
ure rather than against it, and for many years he 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 


245 


spent two months out of every three iu the lonely cor 
nadas^ and the third he passed in town with the child. 

As Teresa grew older she learned to love the curi- 
ous, violent, ugly old man who was so gentle and 
kind to her. He always brought her pretty presents, 
told her wonderful fairy tales, which were really but 
slightly altered experiences of his past life, and insist- 
ed upon her being spoiled in every possible way. 
Sometimes he took her out with him on to the savan- 
na, taught her to ride and shoot, and the girl delight- 
ed in these flights away from the dull conventionality 
of town life. Over the camp fire in the evenings she 
sang to him his own wild songs, and together they 
made plans for the future. When she was old 
enough, the little thing said, she meant to marry him, 
so that they need never be separated. ‘‘ You are not 
pretty to look upon, little father; you don’t dress as 
nicely as the fine gentlemen in Santiago; jpadre- 
cito, you are so black and so wrinkled ! But that does 
not matter to me, for I know you are all beautiful and 
white inside ; and then you are so strong! I’ve heard 
them say, ‘ That Tres Palacios, que / it would take 
the devil and another man to handle him.’ Is it true, 
padrecito f ” 

Often, too, as she lay in his arms, wrapped in some 
old blanket, the old man would look wistfully at the 
pretty little creature, and regret that he were so old 
and unprepossessing. She was a beautiful child in- 
deed, and Tres Palacios vowed that she should be 
rich and so well educated that the highest place iu 
the land should be hers by right of beauty and of 
worth. As for himself, though the gold which he 


246 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 


had deposited on his return from every trip amounted 
to a large sum, he could not change his simple habits. 
He dressed in common cotton clothes, like any ^eon^ 
wore leather sandals, lived on the simplest fare, and 
indulged himself only in the luxury of cleanliness. 

So the years passed uneventfully enough until 
Teresa was wooed and won by a young gallant from 
Panamd, who was attracted as much by her fortune as 
by her beauty and accomplishments. Tres Palacios 
gave the bride away, and long after the church was 
empty the old man stood with folded arms in the 
shadow of a side aisle. He did not know how to 
pray, for none had taught him the proper words, and 
he did not understand that his longing was in itself an 
eloquent appeal. He remained in the deserted church 
because in his old age he was once more alone, and 
this was the only spot in town where the sense of his 
isolation would not be thrust upon him offensively. 
The old spirit of rebellion had gone out of him ; he 
understood that he was old and poor (for he had given 
his all to Teresita), and that the young people would 
have no need for him. What he had learned in his 
youth of the cynical ways of the world came back to 
his memory now. The girl had loved him ; she might 
even continue to love him in a mild, retrospective sort 
of way, but neither she nor her husband would want 
an uncouth old negro like himself loitering about the 
door of their fine house in town. Shame at his rags 
would of itself suffice to kill any lingering affection in 
Teresa’s heart, while her husband would not hesitate 
to have him driven away, unless, of course, he were 
well paid for his indulgence. Women are submit- 


TUE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 247 

sive creatures in these eccentric Spanish colonies, and 
Teresa would not dare to contradict her husband, so 
he must contrive to raise enough money to pay for 
the privilege of visiting his daughter. Why had he 
not thought of this before? The washings were near- 
ly worked out now, and it was no easy matter to earn 
a thousand dollars in these days. 

And so throughout the night, which had come on 
unnoticed by him, the old outlaw, unconsciously peni- 
tent, worked over the problem which he had asked tlie 
recording angel to put down against his name. Be- 
fore sunrise he was on his way to the mountains, and, 
as he had rightly surmised, the happy couple won- 
dered for a brief moment why he had not come to bid 
them God-speed, and forgot him again in the more 
important details of the departure. 

A few months later the old man had visited them 
in their fine house in Panama, and forever after the 
recollection of this visit comforted him in times of 
loneliness. He had taken with him a few little bags 
of gold-dust, in case they should be needed ; but Te- 
resa had welcomed him with open arms, and even 
her husband had seemed so glad to see him that Tres 
Palacios determined to put the money away against 
another visit. At the last moment, however, his heart 
had melted : he longed to offer some present to his little 
girl, and with foolish generosity he had given her one 
bag after another, until his whole store was exhausted. 

The white horse neighed, and Tres Palacios awoke 
from his dream. The shadows had shifted well to the 
eastward, and the slanting shafts of light that pierced 


248 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 


the foliage showed that the afternoon was half spent. 
As he saddled the horse and packed his belongings to- 
gether, the old man completed the story of his recol- 
lections; but he moved more slowly now, and the 
feverish excitement which marked his behavior a few 
hours before had entirely disappeared. As he pro- 
ceeded with his work he talked aloud to himself, and 
there was deep sadness in his voice as he addressed 
himself with a sort of self-deprecating humility: “Tres 
Palacios, you old negro ! you are old, you are ugly, you 
are weak, you are poor! Tres Palacios, who was j^our 
father? Have you a father? Eh? Where is he? What 
is his name, eh? Tres Palacios, who was your mother? 
You have no mother. If they were to meet, would 
they know each other? Yes or no? Answer me, you 
old negro ! No, no^ no, NO ! He would curse her . . . 
and she would laugh at him. And you, Tres Palacios, 
you, their son, would they recognize you? Yah! 
They would hate you, both of them. You are a liv- 
ing proof of their transgression. . . . Away with you ! 
The river from the east and the river from the west 
came together, and where they met they caused a 
quicksand. What is a quicksand, Tres Palacios ? What 
but a cause of trouble and sorrow and misfortune? 
Does a boat land on a quicksand? Does a man stand 
on a quicksand ? Not even grass grows there ; it is a 
tomb — greedy, hollow, never satisfied. Even the cross 
of God will sink and disappear, leaving no trace. ... It 
is right that all should curse you. . . . What did she 
say to you — Teresa, the little one — in her sweet voice, 
full of tears and pity ? What did she say to you ? 
She said : ‘ Little father, though I love you, you must 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 


249 


go away ; little father, you are old, you are poor, you 
dress in rags . . . aud he does not like you. He says 
you may not come. ... I would love you, but I may 
not. I would see you, but I may not. I would ask 
you to live with us, but I may not. “Where is the 
gold he asks. It is not one thousand, it is not two 
thousand, it is five thousand he wants. Then the old 
negro may come and stay.’ Five thousand ... ha ! 
ha ! I have ten^ my Teresa, my little dove, and I am 
coming to stay with my little Teresa. I shall see her 
every day. I shall stand in the doorway, and as she 
goes out she will say, ‘ Adios^ padrecito P I shall 
watch her, my Teresita, as she drives away, and laugh, 
and say to myself, ‘ That is my Teresa and when she 
comes home she will see me, and call out, ‘ Good-night, 
little father.’ And the old negro will be happy. Why 
did I not kill him when he spoke thus — the cur, the 
mountain tiger, pretty to look upon, cruel, hard, 
greedy ? . . . Why did I not drive iny knife into him 
when he laughed at me and I was humiliated ? Is he 
not her husband? That is it; that is why. Now I 
will buy him ; I will be master in his house for a little 
while — as long as the gold lasts; aud then . . . then, 
Tres Palacios, when the time comes, there will be 
room for your old carcass up in the canadas^ where 
you found the gold. By the deep black basin of the 
charco del Umon you can lie down and say, ‘ The time 
has come.’ During the rains you will be washed away 
— a bone here, and a bone there, after the fashion of 
the gold ; and that will be the end.” 

It was dark when he reached the landing ; the moon 


250 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 


was rising, and hung, like a vast yellow ellipse, low in 
the jungle about the river’s mouth, spotting the sur- 
face of the water with spangles of light, over wliich 
they sailed in comparative silence. But a little later 
the bright disk cleared the bush, and poured a flood of 
silver over the schooner’s deck ; the men began to sing 
dull, colorless, melancholy songs, to which the long, 
wailing cries from the ranchos on the marsh-land served 
as a characteristic refrain. Then the wind freshened, 
and, as the invigorating salt breeze filled their lungs, the 
sailors burst into the wild war chant of San Salvador : 

“ Ten — ten — tententen — ten ! 

Ten — ten — tenten — ten — ten ! 

Marchemos, marchemos, con mucho valor ; 

Marchemos, en guerra, por San Salvador I 

Ay, ay, ay, AY ! la suerte ha cambiado. 

Ayer era fraile, hoy soy soldado !” 

Tres Palacios alone sat silent. Even when they 
started up his own well-known guerilla song, 

“ Casca, el padre de Cascarilla, 

Nacio, se caso, y murio en la silla I” 

he contented himself with mechanically beating time 
on the deck planks. Seated on his valise, the only 
thing he had brought with him, he gazed ahead over 
the bowsprit, looking for the twin towers of old Pan- 
ama, which he should see long before they swung 
round to the north in the harbor of the modern port. 
Kumors of trouble and actual fighting in the town of 
Panama itself had reached Santiago; but to the old 
outlaw such news seemed natural enough ; nor did he 
begin to understand how they could affect him direct- 
ly, until the morning of the second day, when a boat 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 


251 


put out to meet and warn the captain against landing 
any passengers. 

Tres Palacios thought otherwise ; the boat that had 
brought the news could certainly take him back. So, 
while the schooner tacked and bore off towards the 
moutli of the Pio Grande, he was rowed back to town. 

The tide was out, and he landed on the shelf of rocks 
in front of the fort, where the sailors left him. A few 
minutes later he had climbed the weathered wall and 
stood inside the lines, not half a mile from Teresita’s 
house. At this early hour there were usually scores 
of business men taking their morning walk, but to-day 
the broad boulevard was silent and deserted. With his 
bag over his shoulder, Tres Palacios lounged along lei- 
surely, watching but of the corners of his eyes, and more 
alarmed at the unusual silence than had there been ac- 
tive fighting in the streets. His progress was arrested 
by a barricade built across the road in front of one of 
the barracks. Under its shelter fifty or sixty men lay, 
half asleep, beside their arms. Beyond, the windows of 
the Cuartel seemed deserted ; not a musket was seen, nor 
even the gay color note of a uniform. He crept up to 
the top of the wall and cautiously looked across; but 
just as his head emerged from behind the stones a 
couple of shots fell, he felt a pull at his hair, and a 
moment later a drop of blood trickled over his fore- 
head, and remained hanging on his heavy eyebrows. 

“I wonder on which side I am fighting?’’ the old 
man said to himself, as he dodged behind the wall. 
“ At any rate, if the fellows can shoot as straight as 
this, matters cannot yet be very serious.” But before 
he could obtain any information a heavy report rang 


252 the story OF TRES PALACIOS 

out beyond ; a paving-stone shot downward from the 
coping, and, ricochetting, struck him sufficiently hard to 
knock him off his feet. In a second the old guerille- 
rd^s blood was up, and he had taken command, for the 
others soon recognized his superiority and accepted him 
as their leader. Three times within an hour the barri- 
cade was attacked, and three times the old man drove 
the assailants back, still ignorant of the party for which 
he was fighting and of the meaning of the flag which 
had been thrust into his hands. But little, indeed, did 
he care for the cause of the fight ; he was in it, and 
now, right or wrong, it w^as too late to draw back. 

But the fourth attack was successful. A small field 
gun had been wheeled into position, and the loosely 
built barricade rapidly melted before its blows. The 
bugle sounded a charge, and a few minutes later the de- 
fenders were swept back and the street cleared. Tres 
Palacios was but slightly wounded ; but he knew that 
the fight was over, and that the best thing to do was to 
lie quiet and wait for a favorable opportunity of escape. 
Long before the soldiers had reached the wall he had 
dropped on his face near one side of the street, and 
lay perfectly motionless, covering his valise with his 
body, and to all appearances a corpse. They trampled 
him underfoot as they passed, but the old man’s limbs 
merely rolled aside a little, limp and heavy as those of 
a dead man, and no one paid any further attention to 
him. Unfortunately the soldiers, finding no enemy to 
pursue, returned before Tres Palacios had had time to 
rise ; and one of these, a mere child, drunk with his first 
bloodshed, and boasting of the number of men he had 
killed, stumbled over the prostrate body, and fell head- 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 253 

long on to the pavement. He picked himself up with 
an oath, and, turning savagely, drove his bayonet with 
all his strength through the old man’s back. But the 
half-spoken curses died on his lips, for the ghastly 
crunching of the steel through the resisting bones 
sickened him, and, without waiting to look at the ef- 
fect of his blow, he dropped the musket and ran away, 
holding his hands before his face. 

It was evening when the old man opened his eyes. 
Save for a dull, heavy burning somewhere in his body 
— he could not exactly say where — he felt numb and 
cold. His mouth was full of blood, and when he 
breathed it seemed as though some one were fanning 
red coals on his breast ; streams of fire broke away 
slowly from the central wound and trickled outward 
to the very tips of his fingers before they passed away, 
only to be followed by others. He endeavored to 
remember what had happened, but his agony was so 
great that he gave a gurgling cry and swooned again. 

A few hours later he awoke a second time, suddenly, 
as from a deep sleep ; his mind seemed perfectly clear, 
and the events of the last twenty-four hours passed 
rapidly before him, not as they really were, but as he 
would have had them to be. Below his left arm 
he felt the hard ridges of the valise that contained the 
price, or ransom, of his happiness. Teresa’s house was 
only a few yards away, and now, at last, he should see 
her. Only a few minutes more to wait 1 He pictured 
to himself how he should knock at the great door and 
ask to see Teresa’s maid ; how he should send word to 
her. Should he merely say, Tres Palacios has come,” 
or should he send up the gold first ? No, he could not 


254 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 


leave the gold. Some one might steal it, and he shud- 
dered at the thought of what that would mean to him. 
ISTo, he must take it up himself. Only a few minutes 
more now ; why should he hurry ? The mere thought 
of the great happiness to come made him so happy now 
that he hesitated to move, and he waited until a bell 
rang out the hour somewhere in the town. 

“Kow!” he said, and made an effort to rise; but 
the paralyzed muscles refused to obey, and with the 
suddenness of a stroke of lightning the poor old 
dreamer understood. 

This was the end, then — to die miserably in the street 
alone, like a poisoned cur, a few yards only from his lit- 
tle Teresa, and happiness just beyond his grasp ! The 
gold — her gold — what would become of that? Up in 
the lonely gulches his heart had leaped with joy as he 
had gathered his treasure grain by grain ; he remem- 
bered how at one time he would have sold an ounce of 
his blood for an ounce of the yellow metal, and now 
that the yellow gold was turned to red, he would have 
given the whole treasure for a little of the life-blood 
that stained it. 

He groaned aloud. “ God, God, it is not right !” 
and sobbed with wild, impotent rage. “ Die ! No, he 
should not, he could not die thus !” With a super- 
human effort he raised himself a little from the ground 
and crawled forward a few inches, gulping down the 
blood that filled his mouth, and choking the hysterical 
cries of pain that burst from him in his agony. Hour 
after hour, with fierce determination, he wrestled with 
death ; and inch by inch he dragged himself nearer to 
the iron-bound door that to him was the gate of 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 


255 


heaven. But as the night waned his struggles became 
weaker, his swoons became more frequent and lasted 
longer, and the fever that enabled him to concentrate 
the remains of his colossal strength burned lower and 
lower. He alternately hoped he knew not what, and 
despaired again as his consciousness ebbed away. His 
mind wandered, and he forgot his surroundings. In a 
vague, indistinct way, he remembered the old days in 
Santiago ; but these blurred pictures were disconnect- 
ed and meaningless beside the one intense purpose of 
these last moments. 

Through the long hours of the soft, tropical night 
he struggled fiercely, desperately ; groaning, gasping, 
biting the paving-stones in his agony, and repeating, 
in a thick, choked voice, that no longer sounded like 
anything human, “ Teresa, my little one ! Teresa, my 
little daughter !” while, unconscious of his suffering, 
the girl slept quietly in the great house over the 
way. 

From above, the moon and the stars watched him, 
unmoved, and passed on their way — and the soft blue 
night-light gradually turned to gray. The streets were 
silent and deserted. In the morning twilight the heavy 
dews rose slowly from the ground and hung in shreds 
of mist between the houses, swinging to and fro in the 
faint sea-breeze, and imperceptibly drifting towards the 
interior. On the wet pavement before the door, that 
glistened as if covered with a thin layer of snow, the 
cramped body of the old negro lay across the narrow 
street, at the end of an irregular brown line that ran 
like a loose ribbon towards the debris of the barricade. 
From the soldiers’ quarters the hoarsely shrill tones of 


256 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 


the bugle sounded the reveille ; a gun boomed in the 
distance, announcing that it was day once more, and 
with a sudden spasmodic jerk Tres Palacios raised him- 
self on his side. For a moment he glared around with 
eyes that could no longer see, and appeared to listen. 
A few drops of blood trickled down from the corners 
of his mouth, and under the ghastly smile of his purple 
lips his teeth glistened, horribly white. 

‘‘ Te . . . Teres. . . !” but the cry died in a gurgle ; 
his head fell forward, and slowly he sank down to the 
ground. It was the end. And once more the street 
was silent. 

An hour later the door opened, and a young man, 
stepping out, looked up and down the street. He shud- 
dered slightly as he noticed the corpse, and, wondering 
why it should be lying there, he raised the head with 
his foot and recognized Tres Palacios. At the other 
end of the bloody streak that marked the track of his 
struggle during the night lay a black, square valise, and 
the young man ran towards it. By its weight he 
guessed the contents, and, raising it to his shoulder, he 
walked quickly back to the house, pausing only to kick 
the passive corpse before his door. 

“ I was in luck at the club last night,” he said to 
his wife later, as he brought her some of the gold ; 
“ and this is for the bracelet I promised you so long 
ago.” 

Meantime the American sailors had taken possession 
of Panama and cleared the streets. And thus this 
black Lear of the savanna, poor, unknown, yet loyal to 
the end, was buried by strangers in the common insur- 
gents’ grave. There was none to mourn his death. 


THE STORY OF TRES PALACIOS 257 

As the time passed and he never came, Teresa some- 
times wondered what had become of Tres Palacios. 
But who should know what happened in the lonely 
gorges where the old man hunted for gold ? 

17 



LOUIS NAPOLEON alias JOSHUA POTTS 



LOUIS NAPOLEON alias JOSHUA POTTS 


I 



HEN I first knew Potts he was travelling 


’ ^ throughout the West as a dru miner for the 
well-known dry-goods house of W. Gee & Co. I had 
passed a cold, snowy February afternoon kicking my 
heels against the door-post of a dingy little kation in 
Utah, and when the train at last whistled into the yard 
I was in no very sociable frame of mind. There was 
but one sleeper, and, as all the berths were engaged, I 
was obliged to go forward into the smoking-car, hop- 
ing vaguely to find some solace, if not sleep, in the 
smoke of sundry cigars. Just as I had lapsed into the 
state which is politely referred to as “ nodding,” a man 
leaned over the back of iny seat and said, in what was 
meant to be a very suave and bland manner: 

‘‘ May I trouble you for a light, boss?” 

“The trouble is all made, stranger”’ I answered, 
sitting up. “ Here, take my stump, and be to 


you. 


“Well, that’s one way of doing it; but thanks for 
the light, anyway,” he answered, quite unrufiied. “As 
for the blessing you chucked in free, gratis and for 
nothing, guess you must have come on the Eastern 


262 LOUIS NAPOLEON alias JOSHUA POTTS 

train; had to wait six hours at Ocho, eh? Well, 
w^aiting do disagree with a man, that’s a fact, sir ; a 
solemn, bare, uncompromising fact — one of them kind 
as fetches a man every time. Never knew it to fail. 
Now I’ve been up this blank road a dozen times, I 
guess, and I’ve never missed being blanked by some- 
body for any civility I ever asked or offered. Part of 
my travelling expenses, you see. What line are you 
in ?” 

“ Railroading just now, I guess,” I answered, shortly. 

“Oh, I see,” was the rejoinder. “Sociable as a 
grizzly, eh ? And I don’t blame you for it. Going 
to Grove City, are you? Well, put up at Parks’s. 
You can’t miss it; only house in the place, and decent 
at that. Well, you want to snooze, I suppose, and I 
don’t — see? You belong in the sleeper, and I in the 
smoker — different lines, eh ? I don’t like your samples, 
and you don’t seem to be mashed on mine. Well, so 
long! See you to-morrow.” And with a nod he 
passed on, while I dropped into a fitful sleep. 

Half an hour later, as I turned over in my seat, I 
heard my friend singing a solo in the baggage com- 
partment, and to the third or fourth line of the song 
the train man yelled a chorus consisting solely of some 
energetic interjection. For some time I listened 
dreamily to the monotone of the wheels — chuggety- 
chug, chunkety-kunkety-unk, unkety-chunkety unkety- 
unk — and in the domain of inarticulate sound these 
nonsense-rhymes suggested a dead and dreary landscape 
overhung by a leaden sky. Now and then, as for a 
brief moment I started into a somnolent semi-conscious- 
ness, the refrain of the song fiashed over my imaginary 


LOUIS NAPOLEON alias JOSHUA POTTS 263 

landscape like a streak of lightning, and in such silly 
words as these : “ Mackintosh, by Gosh !” — chuggety- 
ug, chunkety-unk, uggety-wuggety, uggety-unk — went 
the next verse ; and I anticipated the chorus : “ Then 
said Josh, by Gosh ! Suckotash, by dash ! Twiddle- 

de-um, by Gum ! Senator Dodd, by !” unkety- 

wunkety, unkety-unk — unkety, wunkety, wunke — and 
I was asleep again. 

Several hours later I awoke, sat up, and looked 
around. The lamps had burned low ; some had gone 
out, others still smoked on, and in my drowsy frame 
of mind this seemed a natural result of their location 
in the smoker. Here and there in the semi-darkness 
a loud snoring revealed the prostrate presence of a 
fellow-traveller, and to the song he sang through his 
nose I responded, mechanically: ‘‘Mackintosh, by 
Gosh ! Hog-wash, by Gosh !” I have no doubt that I 
honestly believed I was making some very creditable 
verses, whereas my brain was really like a clock-case 
without a dial, and the pendulum swinging noisily and 
aimlessly to and fro. Then we stopped suddenly, with 
a vicious jerk that knocked all the poetry and a good 
deal of the sleep out of us, and stumbled out into the 
snow. Some kind of a conveyance offered a welcome 
shelter, and a moment later we seemed to be standing 
before a desk, where a clerk in his shirt-sleeves point- 
ed out the line in the vicinity of which we were to 
write our name and residence. Somebody called out, 
most impertinently I thought, “Number seven this 
way, up one flight, second door to your left !” And, 
unable to find any matches, too sleepy to call for a boy, 
who probably did not exist, and too lazy to undress, I 


264 LOUIS NAPOLEON alias JOSHUA POTTS 

groped my way to a sitting posture on the bed, kicked 
off my boots, and was soon far away — somewliere in 
“ desolate, wind-swept space.” 

I had hardly taken my seat on the following morn- 
ing before the table covered with erst-white oil-cloth, 
and dotted with samples of the unwritten menu^ when 
my drummer acquaintance of the night before strode 
into the room and took the opposite chair. 

“Feel hunky this glorious Sabbath morn?” he began. 
“ So do I. Hunky’s the word ; hungry’s the feeling, 
that's a fact. But ‘ knock, and it shall be — ’ Look at 
that steak !” and he raised the meat on the end of his 
fork, humming, as he held it near his nose, “ Should 
auld acquaintance be forgot?” “This belongs to you, 
sir, I suppose,” he went on, putting the meat down 
again. “John ! John! John! That waiter isn’t com- 
ing, sir,” he continued, in a confidential tone of voice, 
“ until the spirit moves him, as the parsons say. Well, 
I like that spirit, sir; free country, sir, and all that kind 
of thing; effete civilization of the East, manly inde- 
pendence of the West; great Aiqerican buzzard, wings 
out, and screaming with an indigestion of liberty. 
That’s the Grove City NewJ style. Eomantic school 
■ — Victor Hugo, Ouida, and — that French nigger — 
what’s his name? — oh, Dum«55, all in one. Editor 
runs the hotel ; poet (that’s his wife) runs the kitchen ; 
foreign correspondent (that’s the daughter) runs the 
chamber-work. Well, how’re you making out?” 

“I thought you told me this was a very decent 
house,” I answered. 

“Well, now, ain’t it? What’s the matter with it, 
anyway? You -pays your money— two dollars a day 


LOUIS NAPOLEON alias JOSHUA POTTS 


265 


for you, fifty and five off for me — and you takes your 
choice. Hullo, John, here you are at last! Glad to 
see you, old man ! Mary's well, is she ? That’s good. 
And the baby, John, how’s the baby ? Fine? That’s, 
first-rate. And how am I ? Well, John, I’m hungry. 
Let’s have some breakfast ; what do you say, eh ? Dry 
toast and muffins ; tea this morning. Did you know, 
John, I can’t drink coffee nowadays ? It’s a fact. Can’t 
do it, sir. I’d tell you all about it, but perhaps you 
wouldn’t want to hear now. Tea it is, then, plain 
Oolong, with a dash of green in it; steak, medium; 
lyon-aze potatoes; sliced tomatoes, canned; I prefer 
’em canned, John — that’s a^^-culiar but solemn fact; 
oatmeal and cream, of course ; scalloped oysters ; pic- 
kled asparagus ; two mutton-chops well done, brown on 
the outside, you know ; and eggs — well, eggs fried this 
morning, John; and don’t forget the milk — straight 
without chalk or water : you know I’m a connyssoor 
on milk. Anything else? Well, I guess not; that’ll 
do for a single meal. I’m not hog-hungry this morn- 
ing, that’s a fact. I don’t suppose you’ve any fried 
chicken, have you ? No ? well, never mind, then.” 

“ You don’t happen to want any collar-buttons, cuff- 
links, or anything in that line, do you, sir?” he went 
on, addressing me. “No, I didn’t somehow think you 
did ; but business is business, sir, that’s a fact. Now, 
just to show you. This morning, when I went down to 
the pump — I always wash at the pump when I can, you 
know — I met the foreign correspondent, daughter of 
the house, you know. Twenty and some odd summers, 
champagne (Pacific coast) hair, Beverly eyes. New York 
mouth, Boston deportment. New Orleans hands, Chi- 


266 


LOUIS NAPOLEON alias JOSHUA POTTS 


cago feet — real pan- American girl, and you bet she’s a 
daisy. ‘Well,’ I says, with a view to business, ‘ Priscilla, 
you’re a — well, you’re a thoroughbred. Now, I tell you 
what I’ll do, Priscilla : I’ll give you twenty-five cents 
for a kiss; no one looking; you’ll make it cheap; now 
don’t go for to say no !’ ‘ Nap,’ says she, ‘ you go to 

— Jericho.’ She’s foreign correspondent for the NewSy 
you know, and sort of lavish with them foreign places. 
Well, just then I spied old Parks, and business kind of 
roused in my breast. ‘ Tell you what it is, Priscilla,’ 
says I, ‘ if you’ll earn that quarter and spend it on my 
goods. I’ll give you one gross corrugated hair-pins — 
Watkins’s make, best in the market — and two solid 
gold-metal studs, patented, and, by gosh, durn me if I 
don’t throw in a pair of celluloid cufi trimmings!’ 
‘ Nap,’ says she, ‘ do you mean it V ‘ Priscilla,’ says I, 
‘did I ever lie? Them articles is worth four dollars 
and eighty -four cents, and you know I can’t lie; 
couldn’t do it for no price ; family peculiarity inherited 
from George Washington, my — ahem! — my ancestor; 
and I give ’em to you for twenty-five cents — one quar- 
ter. Think of it, Priscilla!’ Well, sir, she tumbled! 
Cost me eighteen cents ; profit seven — over thirty per 
cent. Memorandum : Sundries, spent twenty-five cents. 
Keceived (private account) seven cents and one kiss, 
credited to Priscilla Parks, of Grove City. That’s 
business, sir — dry-goods and notions business. Here’s 
my card. And may I ask what your line is ?” 

“ Mining,” I answered. 

“ Oh ! a mining sharp, eh ? I beg your pardon, sir ; 
mere form of speech, I assure you. And haven’t I 
met you before ? Let’s see. Isn’t your name Goss — 


LOUIS NAPOLEON alias JOSHUA POTTS 267 

William B. No, that ain’t it, quite. William G. Goss ? 
I thought so.” 

“Well, and what is your name?” I interrupted, de- 
termined to meet him on his own ground. 

“ Louis Napoleon Potts, sir,” he answered, in a man- 
ner that was meant to be impressive. “To be sure,” 
he went on, a moment later, “that’s not the name I 
was christened by. Josh Potts is what they call me 
at home ; but then I look so much like him — I mean 
I’ve been told it so often — I thought I’d change. It 
sounds well, too — Louis Napoleon Potts: don’t you 
think it does? And I do look like him; there’s no 
mistake about that. You’ve seen him, I suppose? 
Well, that’s what I’m called. Nap, for short; but in 
Salt Lake, or Cheyenne, or Omaha, I’m Louis Napo- 
leon Potts. I thought it was a shame to let such an 
opportunity go by. Helps me immensely, especially 
in prints. Gutenberg invented printing, you know, 
and I tell ’em Potts is the English for it — lineal de- 
scendant, through the women, you know — the Louis 
proves that. Well, joking aside now, don’t you think 
I do look like him ?” And he complacently stroked 
his mustachios and pulled his long imperial. 


II 

Several years later, at a crowded crossing, I ran into 
an overdressed man, whom I at once recognized as my 
friend Potts. His mustachios were carefully waxed 


268 


LOUIS NAPOLEON alias JOSHUA POTTS 


and drawn out, and liis make-up was excellent. Even 
the baggy, unhealthy look under the eyes was accurately 
copied from some recent photograph. He was a per- 
fect caricature of his idol. To my surprise, he recog- 
nized me at once. 

“You don’t say! you don’t say!” he kept repeating 
as we stood on the curb-stone shaking hands. “ Well, 
who’d ’a thought it? How are the mines? Poor 
business that, eh? Well, I tell you, struck it. 
Got a hotel down Grass Market Square. I tell you, 
sir, a bang-up little place it is, too. Come round. 
Glad to see you any time. Come round now. John 
L. drops in now and then, and fellows like him. Now 
you come and see my bar. It’s worth seeing, I tell 
you. You know I always liked you, professor. 
There’s nothing mean about you. I always said there 
wasn’t. Well, how’s the mines? Now look a-here, 
what are you doing just now? Oh, hang your train! 
come round and see me. I’ll show you a nice, quiet 
little corner. Got Stearns & Co. to do it for me. All 
mahogany and fancy glass. I tell you it’s worth see- 
ing.” And before I could find an excuse he had 
passed his arm through mine and was dragging me 
towards his place. 

On the way there we met P , the writer, who 

looked at me twice before acknowledging my saluta- 
tion ; for the shiny silk hat of my companionj cockily 
tilted on one side, and the large, loud, and uncompro- 
mising check suit beneath it that forced itself upon the 
notice of every passer-by, intimidated and shocked him. 
But if I had hesitated before, P ’s evident astonish- 

ment dispelled my doubts. In quest of information, I 


LOUIS NAPOLEON alias JOSHUA POTTS 


269 


had followed my subjects into worse places than that 
whither I was bound, and the feeling that my friend 
might object to my liberty of life but made me more 
determined to be independent. So I followed Louis 
Napoleon — or Joshua — to his gilded cavern. 

“ What do you think of that he said, pausing be- 
fore the usual nightmare of shining brass, polished ma- 
hogany, and colored glass, and putting his thumbs into 
the armholes of his waistcoat. “ Neat, eh ? None of 
your Pullman-palace-car nonsense for me. No, sir; 
not in my place. This, now, is chaste and artistic and 
— well — refined. Don’t you think so ? Now you come 
into my den ; I call it my study. Takes brains to run 
a place like this, and so I think over things in here 
over a glass of gin and water — same as Byron used 
to. Set down. Now what ’ll you have? Them ci- 
gars I pride myself on. Go ahead, man ; take a hand- 
ful and put ’em in your pocket. There! Well, now 
tell me about yourself. What are you doing? How 
are you getting on? Take your coat off if you feel 
like it; this is liberty hall, sir — hospitality on tap at 
all hours, and the best brands. Solid — that’s anything 
you’ve a mind to order; liquid — well, I guess you 
know all about that; gas^^ous — that’s what I call to- 
bacco smoke. There’s only one thing I ain’t quite 
finished in here, and perhaps you might give me a hint 
or two. Them shelves there, that’s to be my library, 
and somehow I’ve never got on to making the list. 
Ought to be brown and gold, I think, with every sixth 
or seventh book red. Don’t you think so ? Ain’t that 
a brilliant and chaste idea ? I thought you’d like that. 
It’s quiet, that’s a fact. Oh, you’re looking at my pict- 


270 LOUIS NAPOLEOX alias JOSHUA POTTS 

lire. That one there on the right, that’s the real Louis 
Napoleon — that was. This one’s myself. Sort of owed 
it to his memory to put him next to me, you know, 
just to show how near I come to look like him. I 
want to go abroad and see the place he lived in — Twil- 
leries, I guess they called it — and I don’t want to finish 
this place until I see what his peculiar style was. I 
want to improve on it, and I can do it, too ; but then, 
somehow, the idea has taken hold of me that I ought 
to live up to this likeness. That’s the bottom of it all. 
You don’t believe we was made like as twins without 
a purpose, do you? There’s a moral in it, sir. Yes, 
sir, that’s a fact, and I’ve caught on. And I’ll tell 
you what that moral is. It’s just this : Josh Potts in 
America is just as big a man as Louis Napoleon ever 
was in France. And why ? Simply because an Amer- 
ican citizen in his own country is equal to any kind of 
emperor, or czar, or king, or I don’t care what you call 
him, in God’s world. That’s the meaning of my par- 
able. Well, now I’ve told it you, it don’t, somehow, 
seem quite as clear to me as before,” he added, refiective- 
ly ; “ but you understand what I mean : Louis Napo- 
leon over there is simply Joshua Potts when he’s in 
America.” 

“ Yes,” I answered. “ I see what yon are after ; but 
it’s a poor rule that does not work both ways. Josh 
Potts wouldn’t amount to much in France, likeness 
and all.” 

“ And that is quite right,” he interrupted, shrewdly. 
“ Josh Potts ain’t got no business in France — no Amer- 
ican has. That’s my idea. Fishes belong in the water 
and birds in the air, just as sure as angels belong in 


LOUIS NAPOLEON alias JOSHUA POTTS 271 

heaven. Yes, sir; to my mind, an American as lives 
in France is the same thing as a lion in a menagerie 
cage. He ain’t nothing but a part of the side show. 
Nobody’s afraid of him ; he’s lost the only thing makes 
life worth living, and that’s his liberty. And what’s he 
got for it? People come and look at him behind his 
gilt-edge bars, and says, if it’s in Paris, ‘ That’s an 
American ;’ and if it’s at Barnum’s, ‘ That’s a lion, or 
a tiger, or an eagle,’ labelled, of course ; and in both 
places, sir — you mark what I say — they pities him, or 
it — a poor thing without a country and without any 
freedom. Well — Have another glass, won’t you? 
Do.” 


Ill 

During the next year or two I kept meeting my 
friend Potts in the most crowded thoroughfares, and 
his attire vouched for his prosperity. On such occa- 
sions he would come up to me with an unctuous smile, 
lay his left hand on my coat collar, and while he shook 
my right, he would affectionately test the muscles of 
my arm downward from shoulder to elbow. In spite 
of his atrocious vulgarity, I liked the man, perhaps be- 
cause of his worship for all things American, a capa- 
bility I often envied him. In his own narrow-minded 
way he was a patriot ; not a man to arouse the country 
in time of peril, but a man to respond to a call for help, 
and to bring others with him. Why he liked me I 
never knew, and, indeed, never really believed that he 


272 LOUIS NAPOLEON alias JOSHUA POTTS 

did until one day I received a letter from Potts, ask- 
ing me to call at his hotel on private and important 
business. 

He was evidently veiy glad to see me, for he came 
forward with both hands outstretched, and caught me 
by the elbows. 

“ I say, old fellow — I beg your pardon — Mr. Goss ; 
I’m damned glad to see you. Walk in. I’m awful 
glad you’ve come. Now what’ll you have? Gin and 
soda, as usual? That’s so. Well, here’s my regards.” 

While he was sipping his glass I noticed with some 
astonishment that Potts’s style of dress had undergone 
a great change. His clothes were dark and simple, 
and the conspicuous jewelry he usually wore was gone. 
Moreover, he seemed to be troubled about something. 

“Well, Josh,” I said, after a long pause, during 
which he gazed absently into his glass, “ what’s the 
matter? What can I do for you?” 

“ I’m afraid, Mr. Goss,” he began, in a manner en- 
tirely devoid of his usual buoyant familiarity — “Pm 
afraid I’ve been taking considerable of a liberty with 
you. But then I looked around among my pals, and I 
took ’em up one by one, and I just had to put ’em all 
down again. Weighed in the balance, you know, and 
all come out light. Then somehow I thought of you. 

‘ By gosh !’ says I, ‘ thafs my man.’ So I wrote you, 
you know.” 

“ Why, are you in trouble. Josh ?” I asked. 

He hesitated before answering; then cocking his 
head on one side in rather a ludicrous way, he asked, 

“ Did you ever know I had a mother, Mr. Goss ?” 

“Well, Josh,” I said, lightly, not quite understand- 


LOUIS NAPOLEON alias JOSHUA POTTS 273 

ing what he was driving at, “ I never hiew you had a 
mother, but it wasn’t unnatural to suppose you had 
one, was it ?” 

“That’s so,” he answered — “that’s so. Well, sir, 
when I begun to make money I got the old woman to 
come down from the farm in Vermont, and we kind of 
settled down together out at Maid well. Little house, 
you know ; small and all that kind of thing, but com- 
fortable, and we’ve been a-living there three years come 
next March, nicely — yes, sir, nicely indeed. Well, sir, 
about a month ago she was took sick — my mother, I 
mean. I done all I could ; fixed up the windows with 
weather-strips, put in a new patent furnace, and them 
kind of things generally. Then I got the doctor about 
twice a week. And it didn’t do a bit of good, sir. 
She took it into her head she was a-going to die, and 
Dr. Trott he said he couldn’t do nothing. Then she’s 
got kind of queer. Don’t like me to be in the liquor 
business, and all that sort of thing. Well, I do believe 
she’s ailing, and I’ni kind of scairt. Then it don’t seem 
quite right to go on a-making money this way, when it 
goes against her. Does it, now ? It’s a pity to give 
all this up,” he added, wistfully gazing at his beloved 
gorgeousness; “but then it’s my mother, professor. 
That’s why I asked you to come. ‘ He’ll tell me,’ says 
I, ‘ what’s right ; so I’ll just drop him a line to come 
round and lend me a hand.’ How, professor, what 
shall I do ?” And as I hesitated, he said, “ Well, now, 
suppose you was in my fix, what would you do ?” 

“I’d give the whole thing up. Josh,” I answered, 
“and see the best doctor in town.” 

He got up from his chair, and walked nervously 
18 


274 


LOUIS NAPOLEON alias JOSHUA POTTS 


around the room. Then he came up to me, and held 
out his hand. “ Thanks, Mr. Goss,” he said. “ I guess 
that would be the square thing to do. It comes mighty 
hard, I tell you, but Til do it — I’ll do it right off. And 
— and there’s one thing more, professor : just sit down 
and drop me a line to the best doctor you know, just 
to tell him I’m all right as far as cash goes. It’s for 
the old woman, you know, and it wouldn’t be right to 
mind the expense.” 


IV 

During the year that followed his motlier’s death I 
did not see very much of Potts. He wandered about 
town in an aimless, disconsolate sort of way, and, to 
tell the honest truth, I found him somewhat of a bore. 
His former vivacity was all gone, and lie kept asking 
such perplexing questions about right and wrong as a 
boy of twelve might have invented ; so that — I ac- 
knowledge it to my shame — I often endeavored to 
avoid this man whose blunt honesty and integrity of 
feeling I could not but admire. 

One day — I had just returned to town from an ab- 
sence of several months — I met Josh on the Common. 
He was, as usual, delighted to see me, and seemed in 
the best of health and spirits. 

“ Well, Josh,” I said, after a while, “ the world is all 
right again, is it ? Tell me what you are about. I see 
by your manner that you’ve found something to do.” 


LOUIS NAPOLEON alias JOSHUA POTTS 275 

‘‘I have, Mr. Goss. You see, that kind of loafing 
around, with nothing to do after breakfast but to wait 
for dinner, and nothing after dinner but to wait for 
Slipper — I tell you that kind of thing is bad for a man ; 
so I quit. I belong to the fire-brigade now, sir.” 

“Why, how did you happen to choose that. Josh ?” 
I asked. “There’s no money in it, and you were al- 
ways pretty keen on the dollar.” 

“ That’s so ; that’s a fact,” he answered. “ But it 
come to me one day that I had all the money I wanted 
— enough to live on, you know ; no family, no anybody 
but myself ; and so I says to myself : ‘ Josh, what are 
you here for, anyway? You wasn’t made to loaf 
around doing nothing — no good to nobody. What are 
you going to do ?’ Well, sir, for nigh upon six weeks, 
I guess it was, I traipsed round the streets and didn’t 
see nothing. Then one day, while I was watching a 
fire, I see a fellow come out; kind of used up he was, 
and weak on his legs. So I went up to him, and kind 
of talked to him for a while. He was a married man, 
with three kids, I found out, and that set me a-think- 
ing. If that man, as is married, got a wife and three 
young uns to look after, can go a-risking his life to pull 
people out of a fire, why shouldn’t Louis Hapoleon 
Potts, who hasn’t a soul in the world to care whether 
he kicks the bucket or fills it at the well ? That’s why 
I’m a fireman, Mr. Goss. Come down and look at the 
engine, won’t you ?” 


V 


So I got into the habit of dropping in at the engine- 
house to talk with Potts and see the men, and one 
evening while I was there the alarm rang. Josh told 
me where it was, and I hurried off to see him at work. 
When I arrived upon the scene the fire had made great 
headway, and the engines seemed as useless as toys. 
The walls of the house threatened to cave in ; and as 
the inmates had all been saved, the men were holding 
back. Suddenly a woman, frantic with grief and de- 
spair, rushed up to the group of which Potts was one, 
and in heart-rendering tones she besought some one of 
them to go after her child, who had been left behind 
in the fiery furnace. But the men shook their heads, 
and answered, as she turned to one after another : “ It’s 
no good, madam. No man could live there more than 
half a minute, and the walls will be down before any 
of us could reach the place.” 

Then I saw Josh come forward. He said something 
to the woman, who clasped her hands and fell forward 
on her knees. His comrades endeavored to argue with 
him, to prove the impossibility of the attempt; but 
Josh merely answered, in his quiet, drawling way, 
“Nothing is impossible, boys, till you’ve tried, and 
I’ve sort of made up my mind to try.” 

“You won’t come back. Nap,” some one called out. 

“Well, perhaps not; that’s a fact. We’ll see about 


LOUIS NAPOLEON alias JOSHUA POTTS 


277 

that later, though,’’ he answered, phlegmatically, as he 
coiled a rope about him. And the next minute he had 
disappeared in the smoke. 

With that extraordinary intuition that makes a crowd 
the mouth-piece either of God or of the devil, the men 
in the street had understood both the heroism and tlie 
peril of the attempted rescue. Breathless, they watched 
the sullen, threatening pile of bricks, through every 
opening of which long tongues of flame shot out, to 
be quenched in the whirl of smoke and steam, and the 
seconds passed slowly as their hearts beat fast. 

Suddenly, in the silence of voices, the half-crazed 
woman rose to her feet and cried out : “ There he is ! 
there he is! My boy ! oh, ray boy !” and burst into a 
paroxysm of tears. And straddling the sill of a win- 
dow on the second floor, the black silhouette of Josh 
appeared against the lurid red background. We could 
not hear his cries, but he certainly must have heard 
the cheer that broke from us in the darkness below — 
a cheer that burst from our breasts like a cry of intense 
pain followed by intense relief. For the tears in my 
eyes I could not see what he was doing ; but a moment 
later some of his comrades rushed forward, and re- 
turned out of the smothering smoke, bearing the res- 
cued child in their arms. 

“ Make the rope fast, Nap, and come down quick, 
for God’s sake — quick !” some one called out. 

But ere the words were fairly spoken, the walls 
bulged out, and the figure of a man loomed up through 
the flames, riding the falling masonry like some legen- 
dary helmsman on the poop of a sinking ship ; and with 
a crash the great building collapsed. 


278 


LOUIS NAPOLEON alias JOSHUA POTTS 


A few hours later, in the hospital, the doctor bent 
forward and said to me, “ I suppose you know his 
name 

Before I could answer, the wounded man opened 
his eyes, and with a faint, pathetic semblance of his 
old, bright manner, he said, in a low voice : “ Profess- 
or, tell him it’s only Joshua Potts, that’s all. I guess 
that Louis Napoleon racket is played out now. Did 
the kid come out all right ? Don’t put on any gloves 
with me, doctor; I know what’s the matter. Just 
give me something to brace up on ; I’ve a thing or two 
I want to talk over with this gentleman.” 


yi 

Three days later we buried him ; and as I walked 
back from the little country graveyard where we had 
laid him to rest forever, I felt a strange admiration 
for this much-maligned human family that knows its 
heroes only after death. For this man, whom the 
world knew merely as a vulgar, swaggering, unedu- 
cated bartender, possessed that spark of divine fire 
which no education, no refinement, no teaching, can 
kindle where God has not put it. 


THE DOCUMENTS IN THE CASE OF THE 


BRIGANTINE “MARIA DIVINA 



THE DOCUMENTS IN THE CASE OF THE 
BEIGANTINE “MARIA DIVINA” 


Note. — The brigantine Maria Dirina has at various times dur- 
ing the last fifteen years occupied so much space in the daily news- 
papers that her name, at least, must be well known to a large 
number of readers. It seems, therefore, worth while to publish 
the following documents, which not only record her history and 
final wreck, but at the same time explain the mysterious disap- 
pearance of her captain and crew. Various fictitious explanations 
of this mystery have already been offered, but as they partake 
rather of the nature of hoaxes, the editor of these documents feels 
justified in publishing the following selection of as many as seem 
necessary to make the case intelligible from beginning to end. It 
is needless to add that they are faithful transcripts of the originals 
in Washington. 


PoNTA Delgada, San Miguel, Azores (date). 
The Hon. Secretary of the Nary, Washington, JD. C. : 

Sir, — In compliance with orders received from the 
Department that a thorough investigation be made into 
the mystery surrounding the disappearance of captain 
and crew of the American brigantine Maria Divina^ 
I beg herewith to transmit my official report of results 
obtained. To facilitate a review of the whole case, I 
have prefixed to the latest documents a full copy of all 
important communications in my possession. For the 
truth of document 'No. XY. I cannot vouch personally, 
not having obtained it from an official source. It is 


282 the documents IN THE CASE OF 

my belief, however, that in the main the information 
contained therein may be considered reliable. 

I began my investigation on the island of Santa 
Maria, Azores (or Western Islands), that being, accord- 
ing to No. ly., the nearest land at the date of inter- 
ruption of the ship’s log. I personally interviewed 
every foreign resident on the island, and also many 
native officials, devoting considerable time to the lower 
classes of fishermen ; but after a month of diligent 
research I was obliged to come to the conclusion that 
the story was absolutely unknown. 

I next sailed over to the group of rocks known as the 
Formigas, and examined each one carefully for wreck- 
age debris, the result being again absolutely negative. 

I then transferred my headquarters to the large 
island of San Miguel ; its northern shore is compara- 
tively uninhabited, but, especially at the eastern end, 
well watered, heavily wooded, and healthy. Owing 
to its location, isolation, and natural advantages, it af- 
fords excellent opportunities for protracted conceal- 
ment; and as I firmly believed that some of the sur- 
vivors of that ill-fated crew had reached land safely, 
I began a careful examination of the shore. On the 
third day I found a piece of plank on which, after 
some cleaning, the letters MAR — D — were still dis- 
tinctly visible. Not being successful in my subsequent 
explorations, I repaired to Ponta Delgada with my dis- 
covery, and examined the records. These unfortu- 
nately proved that on May 18, 1879, the ship Mario 
D’Este had been wrecked on the point near which I 
had found the plank, and consequently, having noth- 
ing further to guide me, I began a systematic inter- 


THE BRIGANTINE “MARIA DIVINA” 283 

viewing of the population of the island. My success 
was no greater than it had been at Santa Maria, until 
an old fisherman advised me to consult a retired Eng- 
lish doctor, now living on his quinta by the Furnas 
lake, and who, from a long and constant practice of 
prying into other people’s affairs, possessed an extraor- 
dinary knowledge of local history. 

This gentleman received me with generous hospital- 
ity, and listened attentively to my expose of the case. 
Before answering he took down a book from a shelf 
above his desk and put it into my hands. 

“That, lieutenant,” he said, as I took the volume 
from him, “ is my diary for the year 1873. Unless I 
am mistaken, you will find somewhere about the mid- 
dle of September a few pages that will throw some 
light on the case, and of course you will have full lib- 
erty to copy them, and use the information in any way 
you wish. As you will find all the data in writing, 
it would be useless for me to add anything mua voce 
now, unless it be, first, that the man who told me the 
story seemed educated far above his station ; indeed, 
I believe that he must have been a college-bred man, 
who for some reason or other had been obliged to con- 
ceal his identity — a supposition which is strengthened 
by his own admission that his past would not bear 
investigation ; and, second, that when I was writing 
down the facts on the day following his death, I dis- 
covered that he had omitted to give me either his own 
name or that of the ship. However, the dates, the cir- 
cumstances, and my own conjectures are too curiously 
coincident with the official facts which you have given 
me to allow of any room for doubt.” 


284 the documents IN THE CASE OF 

Under No. XV. you will find a true copy of the ex- 
tract from the doctor’s diary ; and as I believe that the 
mysterious disappearance of the brig’s crew is thus 
fully accounted for, I shall consider my special mis- 
sion at an end. 

Kespectfully, 

James S. Buchanan, U. S. N. 


I. 

{Newspaper clipping from Gibraltar “ Chronicle ” of Dec. 13, 1872.) 

MARINE INTELLIGENCE. 

Arrived, Dec. 13 : — 

Steamers: Maria Essora, from Santander; Sousa^ 
from Lisbon. 

Schooner : Mirdbella^ from Cadiz. 

Brigantine: Maria Divina^ from New York (dere- 
lict brought in by crew of Dei Gratia), 

II. 

{Manuscript copy of No. 123.) 

Consulate op the U. S., Gibraltar, Dec. 13, 1872. 
Hon. Assis’t Secretary of State, Washington, D. G. : 

Sir, — I beg to inform you that the American brig- 
antine Maria Divina, of New York, has this day been 
brought into this port by the mate and two of the crew 
of the Nova Scotian brigantine Dei Gratia., which 
latter vessel arrived here on the previous evening. 

The Maria Divina was met, abandoned at sea, on 
the 4th instant, in lat. 38° 20' N., long. 17° 15' W., load- 
ed with a cargo of alcohol from New York, supposed 
to be bound to Genoa. No ship’s papers were found on 


THE BRIGANTINE “MARIA DIVINA” 285 

board except the log-book, which has entries up to the 
22d or 23d ultimo ; nor were any boats found on board. 
The vessel is said to leak some, but her new crew had 
no difficulty to bring her into this port. She is now 
in the custody of the Vice- Admiralty Court, and is 
being treated as a derelict. The master of the Dei 
Gratia claims salvage, and would prefer settling the 
matter out of court, if possible, to avoid court formal- 
ities and other expenses. 

I have telegraphed to the New York Board of Un- 
derwriters, and also to Genoa, on the subject of this 
disaster, and, though prepared to do all in mj^ power 
for the protection of the interests of those concerned, 
can do nothing more for the present, as the court will 
not recognize any party claiming the property in its 
hands unless accompanied by a power of attorney from 
the riffhtful owners of the Maria Divina and from the 
holders of the bills of lading of the cargo on board of 
her, which facts I have forwarded at once to New York 
and Genoa. 

I am, sir, your obedient servant, 

H. B. Speagnell, U. S. Consul. 

III. 

{Manuscript extract from No. 130, Jan. 20, 1873.) 

James H. Chichester, principal owner. 

IV. 

{Newspaper clipping from Gibraltar “ Chronicle f Jan. 31, 1873.) 

In the Chronicle of 13th December last appeared a 
short paragraph announcing the arrival of the vessels 
Dei Gratia and Maria Divina^ the latter of which 


286 the documents IN THE CASE OF 

was found abandoned at sea by the former. An in- 
quiry into the case was at once instituted, and has been 
going on ever since. As the circumstances of the case 
are very extraordinary, a summary of the facts elicited 
may be of interest. The facts are as follows : 

On the 13th of December last a report was made 
by the master and crew of the British ship Dei Gratia 
that on the 5th day of that month they had found, in 
lat. 38° 20' N., long. 17° 15' W., a derelict ship which 
they made out to be the American brigantine Maria 
Divina, They further stated that at the time when 
they fell in with the derelict their own ship, the Dei 
Gratia^ was on the port tack, the wind being from 
the north, whilst the Maria Divina^ with her jib and 
foremast staysail set, was on the starboard tack, and 
also that the derelict was perfectly sound, and that 
there was not the least apparent cause for her having 
been abandoned. 

This latter statement was in itself so extraordinary 
that the queen’s proctor in the Admiralty Court, F. S. 
Jollyflood, Esq., ordered a special survey of the vessel 
in the first instance on the 23d December last by Mr. 
Austin, surveyor of shipping, and Eicardo Fortunato, 
diver, accompanied by the marshal of the court, Mr. J. 
Yecchio. The result of this and a subsequent survey 
was, in brief, as follows : 

1st. As regards the cargo, it consisted of barrels 
marked as containing alcohol, all of which were well 
stowed and in good order and condition, except one 
which had been started. 

2d. As regards the exterior of the hull below the 
water-line, it did not in any part exhibit the slightest 


THE BRIGANTINE “MARIA DIVINA 


287 


trace of damage, nor was there any appearance that the 
vessel had come into collision with any other ship, nor 
that she had struck on any ground or rock, nor, in short, 
that she had sustained any injury whatever, the hull, 
the copper with which she was covered, the stem, stern- 
post, and rudder being all in good order and condition. 

3d. As regards the exterior of the ship, a very mi- 
nute survey showed most clearly that not only had the 
vessel not sustained any accident, but that she could 
not have experienced any seriously heavy weather. 
The whole of the hull, masts, and yards were in good 
condition, and the pitch in the waterways had not been 
started, which must have been the case if any bad 
weather had been encountered. The deck-house, made 
of thin planking, and six feet in height above the deck, 
was perfect, there not being a crack in the planking 
nor even in the paint. The seamen’s chests and their 
clothing found on board were perfectly dry, some ra- 
zors even being quite free from rust. Moreover, a 
small vial containing oil for use with a sewing-machine 
was found in a perpendicular position, which, together 
with a thimble and reel of cotton discovered near it, 
had not been upset, as must have been the case if the 
ship had been subjected to any stress of weather. Spare 
panes of glass were also found stowed away and un- 
broken. All the articles of furniture in the captain’s 
cabin, including a harmonium, were in their proper 
places and uninjured by water, the music and other 
books being also dry. Finally, the conclusion arrived 
at by the surveyor, Mr. Austin, is that there exists no 
apparent reason why the vessel should have been aban- 
doned. 


288 the documents IN THE CASE OF 

But, in addition to the above facts, a sword was dis- 
covered, which, on being drawn from its scabbard, ex- 
hibited signs of having been smeared with blood and 
afterwards wiped; further, the top -gallant rail had 
marks on it apparently of blood, and both the bows of 
the vessel had been cut, to all appearances, with a sharp 
instrument. No bills of lading nor manifest were found 
on board. The effects in the captain’s cabin were of 
considerable value, and proved that a lady and child 
had been on board. 

The ship’s log, which was found on board, showed 
that the last day’s work on the ship was on the 24:th 
November (sea time), when the weather allowed an 
observation to be taken, which placed the vessel in lat. 
36° 56' N., long. 27° 20' W . ; the entries on the slate 
log were, however, carried up to 8 a.m. on the 25th, at 
which time the vessel passed from W. to E. to the north 
of the island of St. Mary’s, Azores, the eastern point 
of which at 8 a.m. bore S.S.W., six miles distant. The 
distance of the longitude of the place where the Maria 
Dimna was found from that of the island of St. Mary’s 
is 7° 54' (equal to about 420 statute miles), and the 
corrected distance of the longitude from the position 
last indicated on the log is 1° 18', so that the vessel 
had apparently held her due course for ten days after 
the 25th of November, the wheel being loose all the 
time. 

But the log of the Dei Gratia shows that during the 
time from the 25th of November to the day when she 
met the Maria Divina^ the 5th of December, the wind 
was more or less from the north, and that she was on 
the port tack during the whole of that period. It 


THE BRIGANTINE “MARIA DIVINA” 289 

appears therefore almost impossible that the derelict 
should have compassed within the same time a dis- 
tance of 7° 54' E., at all events on the starboard tack, 
upon which she was met by the Dei Gratia^ and the 
obvious inference is that she was not abandoned un- 
til some days after the last entry was made in the log. 

Naturally various theories are set up to account for 
this extraordinary series of facts, and the sword and 
blood-stains found are held to point to some deed of 
violence. Be this as it may, the fact remains that up 
to the present date not a word has been heard nor a 
trace discovered of the captain or the crew, the lady or 
her child. The captain — B. S. Boggs by name — is well 
known in Gibraltar, and bore the highest character. 
It can only be hoped that by giving the utmost pub- 
licity to the circumstances some light may be thrown 
upon this at present most mysterious case. 

V. 

{Manuscript extract from No. 131, Feb. 12, 1873.) 

I have examined the sword to which the article in 
the Gibraltar Chronicle refers. It was found on the 
floor of the cabin of the Maria Divina by the marshal 
of the court ; it is evidently of Italian make, and bears a 
cross of Savoy on the hilt. It remains in the custody 
of the court. The chronometer and ship’s papers can- 
not be found. 

VI. 

{Manuscript extract from No. 132, Feb. 7, 1873.) 

Kesult of analysis adverse to blood existing on sword 
or wood-work belonging to the Maria Di/vina. 

19 


290 


THE DOCUMENTS IN THE CASE OF 


VII. 

{Manuscript summary of report on^* M. D.” by Captain R. W. Weld, 
U. 8. N.) 

Mutiny highly improbable. Cuts in the bows mere- 
ly splintering of planks due to straining. Ship aban- 
doned in a moment of panic, and for no sufficient rea- 
son. 

VIII. 

{Manuscript extract from No. 133, Feb. 12, 1873.') 

Value of vessel, $15,000. 

IX. 

{Manuscript extract from No. 135, March 10, 1873.) 

The Maria Divina has just cleared for Genoa with 
her original cargo, taken in at l^w York, and in charge 
of Captain George H. Hatch, sent out to this port for 
the purpose by the owners in Hew York. 

X. 

{Manuscript included with No. 142, April 4, 1873.) 

Letter from J. A. Hickelsen, Uetterstrom auf Fohr, 
Prussia, via Hamburg (date March 24:th), to U. S. Con- 
sul at Gibraltar, asking for information regarding the 
Maria Divina., at the request of the mothers and wives 
of missing seamen. Writer states that he knew three 
of these; they were respectable, peaceable men and first- 
class sailors. 

XI. 

{Newspaper dipping from Gibraltar Chronicle f Nov. 20, 1873.) 

MARINE INTELLIGENCE. 

Cleared, Nov. 19 ; — 


THE BRIGANTINE “MARIA DIVINA 


291 


H.M.S. Vanguard^iorJAQhon'y H.M.S. corvette 
for Malta. 

Steamers: John C. Tree^ for Bilbao; Estrella^ for 
Huelva. 

Barken tine : John T. Marshy for Hew York. 
{PeTicil-note on margin.) 

Effects of missing master of Maria Divina shipped 
on John T. Marsh, Inventory shows that no articles 
of value had been left on board, with exception of an 
octant, a one-dollar Spanish coin (gold), a silver watch, 
one dollar and twenty cents in U. S. coin, a sextant, and 
a flute. The only paper found was a German document 
in a tin canister. 

XII. 

{Newspaper clipping from Boston Daily Advertiser f Jan. 27, 1885.) 

MARITIME NEWS.— DISASTERS. 

Brig: Maria 7>^W7^a,Walker, from Boston for Hayti, 
struck on Koshells Reef, Jan. 3d, and will probably be 
a total loss. 

XIII. 

{Manuscript extract from Boston ''Daily Advertiser f May 15, 1885.) 

Captain of brig Maria Divina charged with wilfully 
wrecking his vessel off the coast of Hayti, January 3d. 

XIV. 

{Manuscript.') 

Trial begun July 20, 1885 ; continued 21st, 22d, 24:th, 
27th, 28th, 30th, August 5th, 11th ; concluded 16th. 
Jury disagreed. 

XV. 

{Manuscript extract from diary of Dr. M. A. Asterly, of Furnas, 
San Miguel, Azores, Sept. 17, 1873.) 

Called September 15th by Lorenzo Fidalgo to visit 


292 


THE DOCUMENTS IN THE CASE OF 


unknown castaway; found patient delirious in hut by 
Usor Creek ; quieted down 16th. Grew worse towards 
evening, and died unconscious about midnight. Ma- 
larial fever and utter prostration. Yesterday after- 
noon, knowing his end to be near, the man told me 
a very curious story, which I set down here as I re- 
member it. His mind may still have been wandering, 
though I am inclined to doubt it, notwithstanding the 
improbability of his tale. 

It was about November 25th that matters began to 
go wrong. Up to that day nothing of the slightest 
importance had happened during the voyage. The 
captain was a good man, and as we were a good crew, 
we liked him all the better for making us do our work 
up ship-shape. All told, we were nine on board ; the 
captain, his wife and child, myself (mate), and five sea- 
men. Cargo, spirits for Genoa. 

It had gone three bells of the first watch when 
I heard the captain shouting to me excitedly, and 
I tumbled up on deck in a hurry. He was walk- 
ing up and down bareheaded, in his shirt-sleeves, 
and in the moonlight his face looked so drawn and 
haggard that I could not help asking what was the 
matter. When he saw me, which I don’t think 
he did at once, he ordered me to get the jolly-boat 
out and pipe up all hands; then he ran unto the 
cabin, and a moment later jumped into the boat 
with two men. “ Lower away ! And you, sir,” he 
called out to me, “ bring the ship round, and keep 
near us.” 

“ Ay, ay, sir,” I answered, taking the wheel and shov- 
ing her hard a-lee. While we were in stays one of the 


THE BRIGANTINE “ MARIA DIVINA 


293 


seamen, named Meblen, came aft, and I asked him what 
had happened. 

“ Damned if I know, sir !” he answered, in a curiously 
unsteady voice. “ It was this way. I had a hold of 
the wheel, and was kind o’ lookin’ up at the stars, ’n’ 
the missus she was settin’ about ten foot for’ard o’ me, 
and to port, holdin’ on to the little ’iin ; ’n’ the next 
thing I hear war a kind of a snap an’ a cry an’ a sharp 
splash, like as if some ’un hed flipped a big hawser 
across the top of the water; ’n’ when I looked down 
they was gone, chair ’n’ all ; ’n’ the devil of anything 
in the water but bubbles in the ship’s wake. When I 
come round a bit I made for the cabin and tol’ him. 
You seen the rest. She war goin’ jus’ ’s steady ’s she 
be now, and I reckon ’twer’n’t nothin’ ’s we know of 
yanked ’em to the bottom quicker’n Jersey lightnin’. 
Cap’n,” he added, lowering his voice to a whisper, “ that 
war the ole man hisself, and you ’n’ me ’n’ the rest of us 
’d better be stowin’ our chest for ’ternal darnation.” 

At first I thought the man might have been drink- 
ing, but there was no grog to get at, and he was as 
steady a man as we had on board. Moreover, I saw 
that he was really frightened ; and then there were the 
facts. I felt shaky myself, for there is nothing that 
unhinges a man like a thing he can’t understand, and 
I didn’t understand how the chair had gone overboard. 
The lady might have had a fit, or gone mad, or jumped, 
or something ; but the chair ? And then, again, things 
don’t disappear in that way in a perfectly calm sea. 
There was something more than I could account for, 
and I did not like it any more than Mehlen did. 

By this time we had worn round, and, the wind hav- 


294 


THfi DOCUMENTS IN THE CASE OF 


ing suddenly slackened, were slowly working our way 
back. The other two men had come aft, and all four 
of us strained our eyes to catch a glimpse of the boat ; 
but though we were just about where she should be, 
not a sign of her was to be seen. We hailed through 
the trumpet, whistled, fired our revolvers, and hailed 
again ; but not a sound came back in answer ; and 
after laying to for about an hour we gradually be- 
came convinced that the boat had disappeared as sud- 
denly and as mysteriously as the captain’s wife. 

For a long time we stood together in silence by the 
wheel, feeling a nameless horror creep over us like a 
damp cold, and spread slowly through our veins. We 
were threatened by some terrible, unknown, unseen 
danger, some appalling power that struck suddenly, 
silently, fatally, and without warning. We did not 
know what it was, whence it came, or how, and the 
next second it might be our turn to be seized. It is 
to our credit that during this agony of fear not one of 
us for an instant thought of flying from this fatal spot 
and abandoning our comrades without some further 
effort to save them. By daylight we might be able to 
distinguish what was invisible even in the bright moon- 
light, and so 1 advised two of the men to turn in ; 
Mehlen and I kept watch. We reloaded our arms and 
paced the deck silently, while the slightest noise made 
us jump up with alarm and tremble violently. Half an 
hour later the other men came up again. It had occur- 
red to them that they might no longer find us when it 
was their turn to come on watch, and they preferred to 
be near us. I sent one of them aloft, but he merely 
stayed a few minutes, and came back to report that you 


THE BRIGANTINE “MARIA DIVINA 


295 


could see no more from the cross-trees than you could 
from the deck. I knew that he was frightened, and 
feeling as I did myself, I had not the heart to send 
him up again. 

So that interminable night passed, as it seemed to 
us, second by second, and when dawn came we pre- 
sented a pitiable appearance indeed. But with the 
warm sunshine matters began to look different, and 
we even chaffed one another feebly at our fears of 
the night before. At the same time there was no 
denying the facts, and we could offer no better sug- 
gestion than Mehlen’s, who stoutly maintained that it 
was the “ole man hisself” who had kidnapped our 
shipmates. 

All day long we cruised around the same spot, but 
saw nothing; and as the moon rose the superstitious 
terror which we had been able to fight off during the 
daytime once more took possession of us. No fortune, 
however great, could have tempted us to spend another 
night in this neighborhood, and we determined to pur- 
sue our course. As yet we had not thought of the 
future, nor of what explanation it would be possible 
for us to make on reaching port; for my part, if I 
thought of the future at all, it was of a future spent 
entirely on dry land, and I fancy my men were much 
of the same mind. 

Though we had neglected to have them struck, I 
judge it must have been about five bells when I began 
to feel nervous and apprehensive. Mehlen was again 
at the wheel, and I was standing beside him, looking 
ahead in a vague way and thinking about the mystery. 
The moon was on our port bow, and invisible from 


296 the documents IN THE CASE OF 

where I stood in the shadow of the mainsail ; to star- 
board the sea was one glimmering sheet of silver, 
slightly tinged with yellow. We were going about 
five knots, rather less than more, and instinctively I 
turned a moment to look back at the spot we were 
leaving and wish we were making better time. As I 
turned round again, a tall, dark column rose suddenly 
from the bright surface of the water on our beam ; 
neither noise nor apparent motion accompanied it, yet 
there it remained in the same relative position as we 
advanced, neither gaining nor losing. For a few mo- 
ments I could neither move nor speak ; the strength 
had gone out of me as water fiows from an overturned 
bucket, and I leaned against the rail more like a wet 
rag than like a man. I was vaguely conscious of won- 
dering whether I was awake or dreaming, but it was 
rather a sensation than a thought, and the numbness 
which pervaded my limbs was beginning to creep over 
my senses also, when I was startled from my lethargy 
by a gasping shriek from Mehlen. “ Oh, my God ! 
look!” The top of the column suddenly shot out at 
right angles over the deck. It seemed to me that I 
heard a stifled cry, followed by a sort of whistling 
plunge, and the next moment I lay at the foot of the 
ladder on the forecastle fl.oor. Mehlen and another 
man, whose name, I think, was Burt, were lying beside 
me, panting; but the fourth? We did not dare ask 
one another what had become of him, but resolutely 
and in silence we fastened the hatch, and sat down 
hand in hand to listen, while the blood throbbed in 
our temples and we trembled hysterically. 

About an hour passed thus, when Mehlen asked, in 


THE BRIGANTINE “MARIA DIVINA 


297 


a faint voice, if there was any rum within reach. I 
knew that it would be imprudent to trust the men in 
their present state with a full bottle, so I opened my 
locker in the dark, half emptied the flask on my 
clothes, and brought out the remainder. Under its in- 
fluence we rallied somewhat, lighted a lantern, and af- 
ter swallowing a few mouthfuls of biscuit, sat down 
again to talk over the situation. The men were natur- 
ally superstitious, as seamen are, and would be satis- 
fied only with the hypothesis that the mysterious 
power that was hunting us down could be but the 
devil himself. Not having been raised before the 
mast (in fact, I only took to seafaring late in life), I 
held a different view, which, as subsequent events 
proved, was a correct one ; but I saw that it would be 
useless to argue with them in their present state of 
mind, and so I remained silent, while they forgot the 
horror of the moment in speculations of horrors to 
come. 

Sleep was, of course, out of the question, and to us 
the night seemed interminable, but eventually wore 
away ; and when daylight came I began to prepare for 
the next evening’s probable visitation. I sent Burt to 
the wheel, and, assisted by Mehlen, I unshipped the 
smoke-pipe of the galley stove, replacing it by a hol- 
low cast-iron cylinder, in the walls of which we bored 
a number of peep-holes. The lower flange we screwed 
securely to the deck, collected a number of tools, and 
after cleaning our revolvers and a rifle which I had 
found in the captain’s cabin, we lay down for a nap 
about noon. 

We might have been asleep an hour or so when the 


298 THE DOCUMENTS IN THE CASE OF 

brig gave a sudden quick lurch to port, and as she 
slowly righted herself the deck-planks began to creak 
as if beneath some huge weight. Without a thought 
of our companion, we rushed to the hatch and secured 
the bar. Above us we could hear a slow rubbing 
noise, like the squeak of a squeegee; then all was 
quiet again. We were certainly much terrified still, 
but our terror was no longer the same superstitious 
awe that paralyzed our brain as well as our bodies, 
for, however formidable, it was evident that our pur- 
suer was a material being, not an intangible supernat- 
ural power. It was no more than a hitherto un- 
known sea-monster, possibly the last of its species, of 
gigantic size and power, and capable of extraordinary 
rapidity of motion. But to these qualities, I reflected 
consolingly, we could oppose human ingenuity and 
intelligent courage. The danger was no less than be- 
fore, but, thank God ! it was a real danger which we 
could look in the face. 

After considerable hesitation — for with all my philos- 
ophy I did not feel over-bold — I passed my head through 
the opening in the deck, and looked through the peep- 
holes of the cast-iron box. At first I could not make 
out anything clearly, but soon saw that we were sur- 
rounded on three sides by a dark, slimy wall about 
forty inches high, that slowly expanded and contracted 
at intervals of a few minutes. Looking down the 
deck, I made out two long lines, the one decreasing in 
size, the other growing larger, and running the whole 
length of the ship. Just in front of the mainmast, 
and on the starboard side, the ridge curved inward, 
and from a short thick coil behind the foremast rose a 


THE BRIGANTINE “MARIA DIVINA” 299 

column about ten feet high, stemmed on the deck by 
what appeared to be short fins or wings spread out 
like a fan. This column, owing to the interference of 
the mast, I could only partially see. Save for the 
slow heave of its breathing the huge animal lay per- 
fectly motionless, and I was wondering what its ob- 
ject might be, when, looking upward, I described Burt 
in the cross-trees, gazing down with a terrified, fasci- 
nated expression; he was evidently on the point of 
falling, and it seemed to me that his movements were 
no longer under his control. Even as I was looking, 
his body moved slowly forward until I could not un- 
derstand how he retained his equilibrium ; and a mo- 
ment later he dropped. 

I stumbled down from the platform and sank on to 
the floor, faint and sick. Mehlen gave me some brandy, 
which revived me somewhat, and asked what I had 
seen to take the stiffening out of me so completely. I 
told him that we had the sea-serpent on board, and 
that he had, before my eyes, pulled Burt off the mast, 
as a cat or a snake draws a bird off a tree-branch, by 
the mere fascination of his eye. A minute later the 
rubbing noise began again, stopped for a second, as 
though the animal were hesitating ; then, having 
found the scent, had lain down to wait. It was some 
time before either of us dared to move ; our situation 
was a solemn one, and might even have been called 
hopeless, if ever there is such a one below heaven. 
But as we became more familiar with the presence of 
the danger, curiosity finally prevailed over our fears, 
and with infinite precautions I passed my head into 
the observation box and looked out. Within two feet 


300 


THE DOCUMENTS IN THE CASE OF 


of me the huge head rested on the deck ; the eye, now 
closed, was nearly abreast of the peep-hole. The head, 
six feet long, more or less, was of a rich dark bluish- 
green color, shaped somewhat like a cobra’s, and 
rimmed with a broad band of bright yellow that 
glowed in the sunlight like gold ; behind the bulge of 
the occiput the rugged skin was ruffled into swollen fat 
ridges, and as far as I could see (eight feet or more) it 
seemed scaly, like that of an alligator rather than 
of a fish, and shone with a species of dull iridescence, 
changing in color as the light struck it. The mouth, 
outlined by a black glistening burr of horn-like sub- 
stance, must have been five feet long; and from the 
fork at the rear end a glutinous fiuid oozed out on to the 
deck, emitting a sickening, powerfully alkaloid odor. 

It was impossible, of course, to insert the rifle into 
the observation box, so I instructed Mehlen to bore a 
hole through the upright rim of the hatch, and fire a 
shot, to see what effect a bullet would make upon the 
monster’s carapace. When the smoke had cleared 
away I realized that the shot had been useless. A 
slight tremor ran along the folds of the skin, across 
which a metallic streak showed where the bullet had 
passed without penetrating; the eye slowly opened, 
and then I fully understood how poor Burt had been 
drawn from his refuge in the cross-trees. It would be 
impossible to describe the wonderful splendor of that 
living jewel — a moving moon-stone eight inches in di- 
ameter, deep, soft, persuading, and so gentle that I 
could have gazed forever at its changing tints of the 
most exquisite opalescent sea colors. The pupil was 
neither round like that of a fish, nor oblong like that 


THE BRIGANTINE “MARIA DIVINA” 30I 

of a cat, but more nearly resembled a moving funnel, 
into which the colors of the iris, concentrated and 
deeper, flowed with a spiral motion, now slower, now 
faster, then stopping to flow outward again and dis- 
solve in the luminous outer ring. It was only with 
the greatest difficulty that I could draw my eyes away, 
and had it not been that the fate of my shipmate con- 
stantly warned me of the danger of that beautiful 
gem, I could have gazed into its liquid depths until 
the control of my senses had been lured away from 
me. But with a great effort I broke the spell and 
jumped down into the darkness of the forecastle, 
where wonderfully colored fiery circles stared at me 
from every corner. 

Mehlen stayed but a short time in the box ; when he 
came down, dazed and enthusiastic, he was muttering 
to himself. 

“ It’s a tarnation pity, but I guess we’ll have to do 
it.” 

“ Do what ?” I asked. 

“Why, spike his port fire, cap’n,” he answered. 
“ We may reach his brain, but that seems nearly too 
much to hope for ; ’tany rate, if we can put a dead 
light on that glim of hisn, he’ll prob’ly steer straight 
for home, wherever that may be.” 

“Yes, and lash the brig to pieces in heaving an- 
chor,” I objected. 

“ That’s so, cap’n,” Mehlen answered ; “ but I don’t 
see as we have any choice.” 

In his present position, however, we could not aim 
at the monster’s eye through any of the peep-holes, 
for the box was so small that our revolvers would 


302 


THE DOCUMENTS IN THE CASE OF 


only fit in the centre. So we resolved to wait, and by 
turns we watched a few minutes at a time ; and in re- 
turn the monster watched us, immovable and silent. 
Towards evening it opened its colossal jaws to yawn, 
and the indescribable, overpowering stench that fol- 
lowed nearly sickened us. But after a pull at the 
brandy bottle we resumed our weary task. All 
through that night we gazed into the phosphorescent 
well of light, and hour by hour through the following 
day, and again all that night, until once more the 
same superstitious feeling of awe crept into our souls ; 
for instinctively we felt the colossal, incredible age 
of this sea -saurian witness of preandronic epochs, to 
whom the building of the pyramids was as an occur- 
rence of yesterday. Mechanically, like dream- walkers, 
we stepped up and down from our station ; and of all 
these hours I remember but one feeling, one thought, 
or rather perception — that “it” had not moved. 

On the morning of the second day as I went on 
watch I noticed that the expression of the eye had 
changed. It was no longer gentle; it had become 
malicious, and a low, leering cunning characterized its 
purpose. I called out to Mehlen to look out; the 
next moment a quick fiash passed before my eyes ; I 
pressed the trigger, and with the crash of the report 
fell forward on to the floor, as the ship shot ahead 
with a sudden spring. 

When I regained consciousness the brig was pitch- 
ing as in a heavy sea, though there was no sound of 
wind whistling in the shrouds. I raised myself slow- 
ly, for I was badly bruised, and looked around, but in 
the darkness I could see nothing. My memory was 


THE BRIGANTINE “MARIA DIVINA 


303 


still a blank, and, obeying a natural instinct, I took 
down the bar and pushed back the hatch. With the 
fresh air the recollection of the past few days returned 
to me, and wondering, doubting, yet incomprehensibly 
secure, I thrust my head through the opening and 
looked out at the clear sky above. I understood what 
liad happened, and that at last we were free again. 
Twenty fathoms away, the sea was as calm as a pond, 
and we only were tossing, not the waves. For the 
first time in many years I prayed, thanking God for 
our wonderful delivery, and recognizing his power. 
But this excitement did not last. Mehlen soon joined 
me on deck, and, now that the sense of danger was 
gone, we looked at the immediate future calmly. We 
were yet too unstrung to reach any satisfactory con- 
clusion ; immediate action was not necessary, so we set 
to work washing the deck to get rid of the horrible 
odor which the monster had left behind, and which 
emanated from a dark, slimy substance that marked 
his position on the white planking. 

Towards evening, after our supper, we talked the 
situation over. If we went into port, we should have 
a long story to tell, and who would believe it? We 
should be arraigned, without a doubt, and cross-ex- 
amined in dock. My past history I did not wish to 
have investigated, and Mehlen was not entirely de- 
void of fear as to what an inquiry into his past 
might bring to light. So we determined to abandon 
the ship, take the remaining boat, which was sound 
and well fitted, and steer for some island where we 
could live unknown and undisturbed. It was essential 
that our disappearance should be complete, and so all 


304 DOCUMENTS IN THE CASE OF THE “MARIA DIVINA” 

the next day we labored to replace everything as it 
was before disaster had overtaken us. Towards night, 
having taken the instruments and ship’s papers, and 
having carefully surveyed the ship we were about to 
leave, we put off, and after the usual hardships that 
beset castaways in a small boat, we eventually landed 
here. It is not more than a month since I buried my 
comrade, and now, doctor, you tell me it is my turn. 
Well — Amen! 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 



A SPANISH VENDETTA 


you leave Los Arcos by the Mnez road you will 
notice on the right a low stone structure that 
stands alone nearly two hundred yards beyond the last 
inhabited houses of the town. In itself the building 
does not differ materially from the common type of 
house that you meet in the Ebro Valley. Like the 
rest, it is built of the striped red sandstone of the 
country, and roofed with irregular tiles of a dull red 
color. Like the rest, its fa9ade is pock-marked with 
bullet -holes, and spotted with shallow, rough- edged 
circles, blackened in the centre, and left there by some 
impotent cannon-ball, a few of which are still lying in 
the gutter at its foot. Above the door- way a preten- 
tious coat of arms spreads its mutilated stone feathers 
and casts a grotesque shadow across the front wall, a 
few blocks of which have been slightly shifted from 
their symmetrical position. 

One afternoon in March, within the conscious mem- 
ory of boys of twenty, two men wearing the peasant 
dress of the country were standing in the door-way of 
the little house, and smoking silently as they leaned 
against the posts. It was late, and the villagers were 
returning from the fields in small groups. As they 
passed, many of the men nodded a short “good-even- 


308 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 


ing” to Salliisteano Ycasa and his brother Julio, won- 
dering what the two surly and unpopular brothers 
might be doing here so late. In this primitive district, 
however, impertinent questions were often answered 
by a knife-cut, and the passers-by contented themselves 
with wondering inwardly, and answering the question 
themselves as suited their individual fancy. It was no 
business of theirs, and as they were practical people 
they continued to discuss the morrow’s work without 
alluding to the cause of their curiosity. 

A few minutes after the last of them had disap- 
peared behind the houses, Julio threw himself away 
from the wall with a twist of his shoulders, and, turn- 
ing to his brother, said : “ He has not passed.” 

“He has not passed,” the other answered, senten- 
tiously ; and, flinging away the stump of his cigarette, 
he looked meditatively at the little smoking cylinder 
of tobacco which had rolled out of the paper and lay 
in the middle of the road. Then he examined his nico- 
tine-stained Angers, and rubbed them against the sand- 
stone wall ; but as the brown stain did not yield so 
easily, Sallusteano shrugged his shoulders, and began 
pulling at the handle of his knife, after the fashion of 
a man who has something to do and is hesitating before 
setting to work. 

“Well,” said Julio, looking at him interrogatively, 
“ are we going ?” 

Sallusteano loosened his wine-skin, and, holding it 
out at arm’s-length, he let a thin stream of the purple 
liquid spurt into his mouth, shivering slightly as he 
swallowed it. Then, crossing himself quickly, he sprang 
out into the middle of the road, and called to his 
brother, “ Vdmonos 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 


309 


For half a mile, until they reached the top of the 
grade, neither of them spoke. Suddenly Julio stopped, 
and, pointing to the approaching figure of a man, he 
called out, “See! that must be Juan Jose!’’ 

“In truth,” the other answered, “it is he; I know 
his walk. We will go a little farther.” 

As they went along each opened his ugly curved 
navaja^ carefully adjusted the stop ring, and wound 
his manta several times around his left arm, leaving a 
flap that fell in front over his hand and concealed the 
knife, which he held by the blade, with the handle 
turned outward. 

“ This is a good place for a cross,” the elder said, 
presently, as they came to a pile of stones by the road- 
side. “ You take the left ; I’ll stay here ; and mind 
jmu let me attack first. We must finish this to-day.” 

Meanwhile Juan Jos4 was approaching rapidly. He 
was a tall, lithe-looking fellow of twenty-four or five, 
with bold features and a graceful, strong figure. Some- 
times, when Frascuelo or Lagartijo came to this part of 
the province with their cuadrilla^ and one of these had 
been wounded, Juan Jose officiated as handerillero or 
picador^ and he now wore the latter’s conventional side 
whiskers and smooth lip and chin. He was dressed in 
the Navarres peasant costume, but his brown velvet 
knee-breeches fitted close and smoothly, and the linen 
bag that bulged out of the opening at the knee was 
white and of finer material than was usually worn. His 
purple sash was also of fine flannel, and the blue and 
white manta slung over his shoulder was an unusually 
handsome one. On his feet he wore leather sandals, 
and above these, blue worsted gaiters that reached up 


310 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 


to the knee. His head was uncovered, although he 
had the usual red handkerchief tied about his temples, 
and a wine-skin and knife hung from his belt. 

As he was walking with his eyes on the ground, he 
did not notice the Ycasas, who were waiting for him, 
until, casually raising his head, he found himself nearly 
upon them. Notwithstanding his natural bravery, and 
the habit of looking danger straight in the face which 
he had acquired in the arena, his heart beat fast, and 
he could not repress a little cry of affright, on seeing 
himself suddenly confronted by these two men, to meet 
whom meant blood for any of his family. His bull- 
fighter’s training, however, now stood him in good 
stead. Without awaiting their attack, he flung his use- 
less manta aside, loosened his knife, and, grasping the 
handle of his three - pronged hoe in both hands, he 
threw himself upon Sallusteano, who turned to run ; 
the next moment his head was violently jerked back as 
the iron teeth crunched through his skull, his knees 
gave way, and he fell backward on the road, with 
his legs bent under him, dead. Before Juan Jose 
could turn, Julio, with a low growl of rage, had thrust 
his dagger between his ribs; he had put all his strength 
into the blow, which fell somewhat sideways as the 
other turned, and the knife, widening the gash, was 
wrenched from his grasp. In the hope that his adver- 
sary would fall, he paused a moment ; then, seeing that 
Juan Jose had drawn his navaja too, he sprang at him 
with the howl of a wild animal, and clutched his throat 
as the other struck him squarely below the left arm. 
Both men fell together over the body that lay stiffen- 
ing on the road, and for a few seconds, with their limbs 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 


311 


interlocked, they writhed on the ground, panting and 
groaning. But soon their movements grew more fee- 
ble and slow. Juan Josd’s hand dropped from the 
handle of the knife which he had savagely jerked back 
and forth in the open wound, his head rolled over side- 
ways, and his left arm gave way under the weight of 
Julio’s body, which crushed him to the ground. Once 
or twice his legs twitched convulsively, while the strong, 
knotty fingers stiffened and tightened around his throat. 
Then all was quiet. 

Several hours passed before he awoke. Day was 
breaking, and the cold damp air made him shiver. He 
felt a dull pain in his side, as if the numbness that para- 
lyzed his other limbs were acting as an incomplete an- 
aesthetic. He turned his head slightly, and as he dis- 
tinguished a gray mass on the road beside him and 
recognized the body of Ycasa, all the incidents of the 
preceding day’s fight and of the long feud which had 
existed between the two families came back to his 
memory. For a moment sensation seemed to be re- 
stored to his right hand, and he felt something crawl 
over his palm and pass through his fingers into the 
slimy mud which he was clutching. The skin felt stiff 
and hard, as if some glutinous fluid had dried there, 
and when he moved he felt the pricking of the im- 
prisoned hairs. He realized that his arm must be cov- 
ered with blood, anj[ that he himself was dangerously 
wounded. Was his wound mortal ? “ Oh, my God, 

no 1” he cried, mentally, as the thought filled him with 
anguish ; not merely because it meant death to him, 
but because to all of his name it meant dishonor for 
many years to come. 


312 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 


He was the last grown Valdes, while one of the 
Ycasas still remained in Los Arcos to jeer at the 
women and children of his family. He made another 
abortive effort to rise, but the intense pain of his 
wound suddenly overcame him, and for a few minutes 
he lay still, quivering all over. “I must live! I ^oill 
live !” he cried out, passionately, and began to pray to 
the Virgin. Then he felt more reassured, and lay 
quiet, watching the brightening light in the east, until 
a heavy stupor came over him and he became half un- 
conscious. While he was lying thus, it seemed to him 
that at times he heard the measured tramp of men 
marching in step ; but it came and went, and he was 
too weary to raise his eyelids. “ I could not see, any- 
how,” he said to himself; “Julio is lying across my 
breast.” 

Suddenly the weight that held him down was re- 
moved ; he heard a voice say : “ Those two are dead, 
and this one seems pretty far gone. Wliat shall we do 
with him, corporal?” Juan Jose opened his eyes, and 
to his dismay saw six soldiers standing around him, 
while the non-commissioned officer was bending over 
and trying to cut open his shirt. In a moment he had 
forgotten the languor, the weakness, the pain — all save 
only that he was a prisoner, and would be sent to the 
galleys. 

“ Have pity, gentlemen,” he pleaded. “ It is a fam- 
ily feud. They are Ycasas; I am a Valdes, and the 
last man of them. Pass on your way without seeing 
us. Who will know it? Who saw you pass? You 
came by at night. Do not make me a prisoner, gentle- 
men ; for the sake of God, for the love of the Virgin, 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 


313 


leave me free ! Kill me here rather than let me grow 
well there. Tomas Ycasa still lives, and you know — 
Ah, senores, pass on your way !” 

The soldiers seemed undecided, and looked at one 
another inquiringly. Their sympathies were with the 
wounded man, and they would gladly not only have 
left him his liberty, but even borne him away to some 
safe place where he could recover in peace, and then 
come back to do his duty — for of course it was his 
duty to return and kill the remaining Ycasa. Finally 
one of them turned to the officer and asked, “Well, 
corporal, what shall we do 

“ Do he answered, gruffiy. “ Go to the town, and 
come back with three stretchers. Come, right about 
face, and march! No treason h^YQ, por Dios ! Well, 
compadre^^ he continued, addressing the wounded man, 
“you don’t like it, eh? I am sorry. I dare say the 
Valdeses are not better than the Ycasas, and yet I 
should like you to have a chance at that fellow Tomas, 
you have done so well on these two. liomhre^ que ! 
we can’t all have onr way in this world. That was said 
by some great writer before you or I was born, and 
therefore it must be true.” And with these words he 
seated himself on the pile of stones, while the soldiers 
tramped off towards the town. 

He was a small, spare man, with a wrinkled face, 
loose, straggling gray hair, and a yellowish imperial, 
which he constantly stroked while smoking. His little 
beady eyes, black as coals, and half hidden under his 
projecting eyebrows, moved quickly from side to side, 
and never rested on any one object longer than was 
necessary to see that it was all right. Tio Cucho, as 


314 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 


he was called, had fought all over the world under 
many different flags, for the color of which he did not 
care as long as they led him into battle. He had 
fought with the Carlists in Spain, with the English be- 
fore Sebasfopol, with the French in Algiers, China, and 
Italy, with Maximilian in Mexico, and under the red 
flag of the Commune when peace had been signed 
with the Germans; he had been fortunate enough to 
escape when the Yersaillais took Paris, and had since 
become quite famous for his daring exploits during the 
recent Carlist war. He had steadily refused promotion, 
saying that all he desired was the excitement of a bat- 
tle, and that if they made him an officer he should 
have to learn to talk and forget to fight, and both 
these things were impossible. So at the age of fifty- 
four he was still a strolling corporal, ordered about 
from garrison to garrison, and infinitely preferring 
the rough life of the barracks to the comforts of a 
more peaceable existence. 

He had picked up some sticks in the ditch and be- 
gun to whittle them down into small crosses, which he 
made very symmetrical and smooth. As both his hands 
were occupied, the smoke of the cigarette which he 
held between his projected lips filtered through his 
moustache, and, collecting under his bunched eyebrows, 
caused him to draw up his little brown face into a 
grimace that changed with every movement he made. 
When he had finished the second cross, and compared 
it with the first to see that they were of a size, he 
looked up with a satisfied smile, drew his musket up 
between his legs, and fixed his eyes on Juan Jose. 

“ Well, young one,’’ he began, “ what have you got 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 


315 


to say — eh ? Shall I make a third cross for you, or do 
you think you’ll get over that scratch in your side ? 
You’ll get over it, little one; you’ll get over it in a 
month or so. And so you don’t want to go to the 
galleys — eh? See that, now! He kills two men as if 
they were sucking pigs, and he doesn’t think that’s 
enough for the galleys! Qm/ gm! these young 
ones !” 

Notwithstanding the sarcastic tone in which he spoke, 
he looked at Juan Jose not unkindly ; and with the 
quick perception of a sick man, the latter felt it. 

“ Pot Dios^ seftor comandante^'^ he said, endeavoring 
to please him by this flattery, “ let me go. If I am 
killed, then it will not matter; and if I kill Mm^ I 
swear to you that I will give myself up voluntarily. 
See ! it was this way. It is thirteen years since my 
uncle Aciseto and Tomas Ycasa quarrelled on the mar- 
ket-place. The uncle had no arms; Tomas had been 
out hunting, and had his gun. He shot him down 
there on the plaza, and there was a flght between the 
two families. I remain alone — that is true — and all 
the Ycasas are gone save Tomas, the one who began 
the flghting. Give me time, senor — a month ; not 
more. Por Dios^ senor, do not say no ; it will kill me 
if you say no. Think of the women and the dislion- 
ored name ! Why should it matter to you ? Ah ! are 
you an Ycasa?” 

“ Collate^ hombre — hold your tongue !” the old man 
interrupted, sharply. “No, I am no Ycasa — thank 
God for that ! I know the story, and I know you too. 
Listen : you know El Trahuco 

“ If I know him ! He is my sworn brother.” 


316 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 


“ Good. Be quiet, now. El Trdbuco is my son.” 

‘‘ Gregorio your son ! But that is impossible.” 

Win you be quiet ? The devil carry you off, I say !” 
Tio Cucho cried, angrily. Then softening down again, 
and speaking quickly as he heard the footsteps of the 
approaching soldiers : “ I shall have you taken to Los 
Arcos, and when you are well you will be marched to 
Logrono. In passing through Viana you must stop 
at Trabuco’s and get a glass of wine. I have known 
a glass to last all night, and in a night ^mu can run 
down here, do the thing you have to do, and run back. 
Understand? Good; that’s enough. What have you 
been about so long?” he growled, turning to the sol- 
diers, with an oath. “ You lazy lubbers ! The devil 
take you all, you and your ancestors and your descend- 
ants, up and down. Now, then, don’t stand there as 
if some one were picking the fleas off your carcasses, 
you worthless dogs! Put him on first. Gently there! 
don’t you see his skin is cracked, and the boy’s half 
dead? If he cries. I’ll break your dogs’ jaws. You 
hear me ! Now off with him ; go slow, and break step. 
Here, you; put these two up now, and hurry. You 
can’t hurt them ; they’re carrion anyhow, dead or alive.” 
And so growling and swearing, the little corporal led 
the procession up to the house where the Ycasas had 
waited the day before, gave orders to have their bodies 
taken up to the church, and at once went to hunt up 
Nina Mercedes, whom in days gone by he had taught 
to dress wounds and mix simples. 

One morning, about a month later, the inhabitants 
of Los Arcos stood assembled before the town where 
the main street joins the broad Yiana road. Juan Jose 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 


3ir 

was going off to the galleys. The skill and pluck which 
he had shown in his recent encounter with the Ycasas 
had won him the admiration of many who hitherto 
had remained disinterested spectators of this bloody 
little family war, and all these had come to bid him 
good-by. In this country, where one man and his knife 
are usually considered the exact equivalent for another 
man with his knife, the slayer of two armed men was 
a curiosity of no little importance; and a-lthough it 
was a flagrant breach of their accepted code of honor 
to take any notice of a vanquished foe, Juan Jose’s 
departure was so much more like that of a victorious 
hero that even Tomas had joined the crowd, and watched 
his natural enemy from a distance. There was so much 
evident satisfaction in the prisoner’s face, so much self- 
assurance and simple pride in his bearing, that Tomas 
instinctively felt that all was not as it should be, and 
that he was not yet free from danger. Some of the 
older men were displeased with Juan Jose’s behavior, 
and mourned over the falling off of virtue among 
the younger generation. But among the rest, espe- 
cially among the women, admiration and pity were the 
only noticeable feelings. 

It was time to go. Juan Jose walked slowly round 
the semicircle, shook the men silently by the hand, and 
kissed his kinswomen. Then he turned towards the 
two cardbineros^ who leaned on their muskets a hun- 
dred yards farther down the road, with their backs to 
the crowd. They were personally responsible for their 
prisoner, but they knew what manner of man he was, 
and to prove their confidence had not only not cocked 
their muskets, but for the last half-hour had not even 


318 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 


looked back to make sure that he was still within reach. 
Half-way between them and the crowd, a girl stood 
alone in the road, waiting. As the prisoner came 
towards her she wiped away her tears quickly, and 
attempted to smile. Juan Jose took her head in both 
his hands, and looked down into her large soft eyes — 
softer now for the tears that stood in them ; then he 
drew her gently to him and kissed her. 

“ Don't cry, Pepita dear,” he said, trying to console 
her. “ I shall come back to-night,” he whispered in 
her ear. 

The girl started, then leaned forward again, and 
said, sadly, “But not for me, Juan Jose !” 

Half a minute passed thus, neither speaking. Pe- 
pita had forgotten all but that her head was on her 
lover’s breast, and that she loved him. She would 
have remained thus forever. 

But he could not forget that they were watched, and 
that it was time to end this scene. “ Yaya ! little 
one,” he said, awkwardly ; “ I must say good-by — un- 
til to-night,” and he gently kissed her hair and eyes. 

For a moment she looked up at him with a dazed 
expression, and suddenly throwing her arms around 
his neck, she kissed him passionately on the mouth 
and pushed him away. 

Pobrecita he said, speaking to himself as he 
turned away. Half mechanically, he took some to- 
bacco from his pouch to roll a cigarette, which he 
lighted; then he quickened his step, joined the sol- 
diers, and saying, “ Ydmonos^ amigos^'* marched away 
^with them down the road. 

Late that afternoon they reached Yiana, and went 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 


319 


straight to the inn which Trabuco kept under the old 
town wall. When they entered, he was alone in the 
low smoky kitchen, lighted by a Koman lamp that 
hung from the vaulted ceiling, seated on one of the 
benches under the hood of the fireplace, and looking 
gloomily into the glimmering oak-twigs on the hearth. 
At his feet a large greyhound lay asleep, with its nose 
between its outstretched paws, and a ragged - furred 
kitten was playing with the end of a string which he 
absently held between his fingers. In the next room 
a child was cr^nng, and one could hear the shuffling 
of the mother’s bare feet on the stone floor, and her 
plaintive, nasal lullaby. 

Trabuco rose and came forward to meet the men, 
and bade them welcome to his house. He threw a 
fagot of oak branches on the fire, brought the jug of 
anisado from a table in the corner, and, after drinking 
with the new-comers, ordered his wife to prepare some 
supper. 

“ Tio Cucho has been here,” he said, presently, to 
Juan Jose. “ Of course I am willing. He left money 
for the woman in case — How are the soldiers?” 

“ Good boys,” the other answered. “ With cards 
and brandy you can talk to them.” 

“ Good ! You know what to do ; you must be back 
early. I will speak to them.” 

“ As you say, Gregorio.” 

Trabuco turned, and went straight up to the sol- 
diers, who were playing cards on the raised platform 
of the fireplace. 

“ See, friends,” he began, in his deep, guttural voice, 
“I am Juan Jose’s sworn brother. His head, or my 


320 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 


head, it’s all the same thing. You know he is a 
man ; so am I. How should we have sworn brother- 
ship otherwise ? Good ! Juan Jose has forgotten 
something in Los Arcos — you know what — and he is 
going back there to-night. I shall stay with you. If 
he does not return, you can take me to Logrono. Who 
knows the difference there? They want a man ; good ! 
I am a man. Have you understood ?” 

The men were taken somewhat by surprise, and 
Trabuco’s blunt proposition staggered them. At the 
same time they felt perfectly sure of him ; he would 
remain even if something did happen to Juan Jose. 
Then he was not a man to be contradicted. Even if 
they had not heard of the many desperate things at- 
tributed to him, they would have been impressed by 
the concentrated energy of this small, powerful man, 
who looked as though he might have been the original 
of Velasquez’s head of ^sop. Finally, however, Juan 
Jose was told that he might go. What Trabuco was 
doing for him seemed so perfectly natural that he never 
even thought of thanking him ; and Trabuco expected 
no thanks. 

About the middle of the night Juan Jose reached 
the first houses of Los Arcos, and sat down on a stone 
to rest. That he was about to commit a murder never 
occurred to him. He had a duty to perform quickly 
and perfectly. Just as on that night, a month ago, 
when he lay wounded on the Muez road, he had made 
up his mind that he must live, and had thrown his 
whole energy into merely living, so now his only 
thought was to kill Tomas, and in the shadow of the 
silent houses he crept towards the street where the 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 


321 


Ycasas lived. Suddenly, a figure ran out of a dark 
door-way, and before Juan Jose could start back he 
felt Pepita’s arms around his neck. 

“IS^ot now, Pepita,” he said, gruffly, as he pushed 
her aside. “ I need all my strength. Wait a few min- 
utes till I come back. Is he here?” 

‘‘No, Juan Jose,” the girl answered, meekly. “ He 
went to sleep at the inn near the church. I think he 
is afraid. Then shall I wait under the Arcade ?” 

“Yes, little one. Now leave me quickly. It will 
not take long.” 

“God go with you, Juan Jose!” she cried after him 
as he turned back towards the plaza. 

He found the inn door open as usual, and went in. 
At the foot of the staircase he removed his sandals, 
grasped his knife, and ran quickly up the two flights 
of stone stairs to the guest-room. This was a large 
hall occupying the whole front of the house, and di- 
vided into open stalls like a stable. At the upper 
end the shutters were thrown back, and the moonlight 
streamed in. The beds on this side were all vacant. 
At the lower end, which was imperfectly lighted by 
a suspension -lamp, several men were snoring. Juan 
Jose looked into two of the alcoves, and marking the 
riding-boots on the floor, he passed on, for Ycasa only 
wore sandals. The last alcove, larger than the others, 
was divided by a screen into two compartments, in the 
first of which a young stranger, with his head thrown 
far back and his right arm hanging over the bedside, 
lay fast asleep. Between the bolster and the bedclothes 
a small revolver had slipped from under the pillow, 
and lay ready for use by any one except the owner. 

21 


322 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 


Juan Jose smiled at the idea of trusting to such pro- 
tection, and crept round the back of the bed into the 
other compartment, making the sign of the cross over 
the stranger’s head as he passed. 

In the second bed Tomas Ycasa was sleeping un- 
easily, as if dreaming. He lay on his back, with one 
arm under his head, and the blanket which had fallen 
aside left his breast uncovered. J uan J ose raised his 
knife, and marking the exact spot on the sleeper’s 
breast, he struck quickly and drew back. 

Ycasa half turned over on his side, and raised him- 
self from the bed on his shoulders and feet, like a man 
bent by a sudden cramp. He made one or two quick 
turns from side to side, then lay back again, quiver- 
ing all over like a frightened bird, and extended his 
hands and feet slowly outward. A hoarse gurgling in 
his throat seemed to choke him ; a little stream of blood 
appeared at each corner of his mouth and trickled 
down over his chin on to the sheet, and it was all 
over. 

In spite of his exultation Juan Jose felt weak and 
faint. He flung open the shutter and looked out into 
the quiet street. The only sensation of which he was 
conscious was one of anger with himself for his pusil- 
lanimity, yet this anger was tempered with a certain 
sense of pride at having thus successfully ended the 
family duel in which the odds had been three to one 
against him. For some minutes he remained at the 
window, holding his head in his hands, and breathing 
in the cold night air. Suddenly he remembered that 
Pepita was waiting, and he turned to go, but an irre- 
sistible fascination drew him back to the bedside of 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 


323 


the man he had killed. Through the shutter he had 
just opened the moonlight fell full on the quiet body 
of Ycasa, whose wrinkled face looked greenish and 
ghastly. On the bright blade of the knife the fii-st 
three letters of the motto “Viva Espana” were plainly 
legible, and the tapering curved handle threw a snake- 
like shadow over the tumbled bedclothes. Juan Jos6 
wondered whether he should not pull the knife out, 
but as he leaned forward he touched the blanket, and 
the snake-like shadow moved. A sudden fear seized 
him, and he ran quickly from the room, down the two 
flights of stairs, and out into the street. 

He felt dazed and adrift, and for a moment he could 
not even remember why he was going towards the 
market-place. He was conscious of a deep craving for 
passion of some kind that should fill his heart. Pepita ! 
For a moment he trembled all over ; a sense of suffo- 
cation overcame him, and he clutched with both hands 
at the collar of his shirt, which he tore open. Then 
crying out, passionately, Pepita, Pepita, te quieroP^ 
he dashed down the street towards the plaza. 

Early the next day, looking pale and tired, he ar- 
rived at Viana. A bluish stubble covered his lip and 
chin, to which the red dust of the road clung in 
patches, and his clothes were ragged and disordered. 
His eyes were unnaturally bright, and he shivered oc- 
casionally as with fever. Without speaking he raised 
the jug of cmisado to his lips and took a deep draught. 

“ Here I am !” he said, abruptly, as he sat down on 
the bench beside Trabuco. The soldiers were still 
playing at cards before the fire, where they had passed 
the night. The greyhound rose, stretched out its 


324 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 


hind-legs one after the other, and laying its nose on 
Juan Jose’s knee, looked up wistfully into his face out 
of its sad brown eyes; and in an absent-minded way 
he stroked its head. Through the half-open door Tra- 
buco’s wife peered in at the prisoner, but did not dare 
enter the room. For some time no one said anything, 
and the soldiers pretended to continue their game. 
They all felt that Juan Jose should speak first; but as 
he sat silent, looking at the smouldering fire, Trabuco 
finally asked : 

Where is the knife 

“In its place,” Juan Jose answered, gloomily. He 
stretched himself wearily and yawned. Then, after 
another pull at the brandy jug, he said to the soldiers, 
“ It is time to go.” 

They went out first, and Juan Jose stood irresolutely 
before the house, holding Trabuco’s hand. “I am 
going,” he said, presently, looking aside as if trying to 
avoid his friend’s eyes. As the other made no answer, 
he repeated : “ I am going, Trabuco. I shall not come 
back — I know it. Pepita remains alone.” 

“ Ho,” Gregorio answered. “ The house is large ; 
she can come here. Is she not my sister now ?” 

“ Good ! Then you will see her soon ? Tell her — ” 
He paused a moment as if reflecting, then went on 
again: “Ho, don’t tell her anything. I wish to die, 
Gregorio, and they will kill me, I know ; but I should 
not wish to die that way. Yaya^ pues^ amigo! I 
must go.” 

“ Good-by, then, little brother,” Trabuco said, put- 
ting his hands on the other’s shoulders, and looking at 
him affectionately. “ God wills it thus. Perhaps we 


A SPANISH VENDETTA 


325 


may see each other again, who knows ? They would 
like to send me to Cadiz too, perhaps.” 

“ Perhaps,” the other acquiesced, as he turned away 
and joined the soldiers who were waiting for him 
under the town gate-way. 

For some minutes Trabuco stood watching the three 
men as’they descended the hill talking with animation. 
Presently he went into the house, took down his gun, 
and cleaned it carefully. When he had finished he 
laid it on the seat beside him, filled his pipe, and 
smoked silently for over an hour, with his head in his 
hands. Then he jumped up as if he had come to some 
sudden conclusion, loaded his rifle, and whistled his 
dog. 

The next morning the Gaceta de Logrono printed 
the following paragraph : 

“ Death op the Famous Murderer Juan Jose Valdes. 

“ At the moment of going to press we receive the news that 
Juan Jose Valdes, of Los Arcos, who killed two men a few weeks 
ago, was shot last evening at dusk. He was being brought into 
town between two carabineros, whose attention he had so com- 
pletely engaged by his stories of bull-fights that they neglected to 
watch the country through which the road passes. Suddenly they 
were startled by the near report of a gunshot, and Juan Jose fell 
to the ground shot through the forehead. It is evident that the 
shot was meant for one of the soldiers, and that God’s providence 
alone frustrated an attempt to rescue this notorious criminal. We 
shall print the full details of his career in to-morrow’s paper.” 


THE END 











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By MARY E. WILKINS. 


A Nbw England Nun, and Other Stories. Idmo, Cloth^ 
Ornamental, $1 25. 

The anerring skill, the faultless delicacy, and the almost touching fidel- 
ity with which these little stories are told, cannot be to highly commended. 



N. Y. 


Always there is a freedom from commonplace, and a power to hold the 
interest to the close, which is owing, not to a trivial ingenuity, but to the 
spell which her personages cast over the reader’s mind as soon as they 
come within his ken. . . . The humor, which is a marked feature of Miss 
Wilkins’s stories, is of a pungent sort. Every story has it, and it is a savor 
which puevents some, that otherwise would be rather painful, from op- 
pressing the reader unduly . — Atlantic MorUfdy. 

What can we say that will express our sense of the beauty of “ A New 
England Nun, and Other Stories?” So true in their insight into human 
nature, so brief and salient in construction, so deep in feeling, so choice in 
expression, these stories rank even with the works of Mrs. Stowe and Miss 
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Nun,” “Callabilus and Hannah,” or “The Revolt of Mother ” for especial 
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A Humble Romance, and Other Stories. 16mo, Cloth, 
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Only an artistic hand could have written these atoriee, and they will 
make delightful reading. — Evangelist^ N. Y. 

The reader who buys this book and reads it will find treble his money’s 
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Miss Wilkins is a writer who has a gift for the rare art of creating the 
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The author has the unusual ^ft of writing a short story which is com- 
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is an excellent one. — Observer, N. Y. 

A gallery of striking studies in the humblest quarters of American coun- 
try life. No one has dealt with this kind of life better than Miss Wilkins. 
Nowhere are there to be found such faithful, delicately drawn, sympa- 
thetic, tenderly humorous pictures. — N. Y. Tribune. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 


The above works sent bp mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United 
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BEN-HUR: A TALE OF THE CHRIST, 


By Lew. 'Wallace. 16mo, Cloth, $1 50. Garfield 
Edition. Two Yolumes. Twenty Full -page Pho- 
togravures. Over 1000 Illustrations as Marginal 
Drawings by William Martin Johnson. Crown 
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Anything so startling, new, and distinctive as the leading feature of*’ 
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an accomplished master of style. — N. Y. Times. 

Its real basis is a description of the life of the Jews and Romans at the 
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“ Ben-Hur ” is interesting, and its characterization is fine and strong. 
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The book is one of unquestionable power, and will be read with un- 
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Mr. Meeson’s Will 

16mo 

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,lGmo 

25 

Col. Quaritch,V.C. (ill’d) 

IGmo 

25 

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IGmo 

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Beatrice (illustrated) 

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30 

The World’s Desire 

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35 

Eric Brighteyes 

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PRICE 

Henry Esmond 


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25 

Great Hoggarty Diamond. . . , 


20 

Vanity P’air (illustrated) 


80 

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75 

The Virginians (illustrated).. 

. .8vo 

90 

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. . 8vo 

90 

AVALTER BESANT. 


Uncle Jack and Other Stories. 12mo 

25 

All in a Garden Fair 


20 

Self or Bearer 


15 

For Faith and Freedom 


60 

The Bell of St. Paul’s 


35 

The Inner House 


.30 

The AVorld Went Very Well Then 


(illustrated) 


25 

The Children of Gibeon 


60 

The Holy Rose 


20 

Katherine Regina 


15 

Dorothy Forsler 


20 

To Call Her Mine (illustrated] 

1. .4to 

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Herr Paulus 


35 

Armorel of Lyonesse (ill’d). . 

..8vo 

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All Sorts and Conditions of Men 


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trated) 


GO 

BESANT & RICE 

• 


Golden Butterfly 


40 

When the Ship Comes Home.32mo 

25 

’Twas in Trafalgar’s Bay 

32mo 

20 

Sweet Nelly 


10 

Shepherds All and Maidens Fair. 



32m 0 

26 

The Chaplain of the Fleet . . . 

..4to 

20 

By Celia’* Arbor (illustrated) 

. .8vo 

60 

The Captain’s Room 


10 

AAL CLARK RUSSELL. 


Auld Lang Syne 

..4to 

10 

A Sailor’s Sweetheart 


16 

A Sea Queen 


20 

A Strange Voyage 


20 

A Book for the Hammock. . . 


20 

Wreck of the “Grosvenor” . 

. .4to 

15 

An Ocean Tragedv. 


50 

The “ Lady Maud ” (illustrated) .4to 

20 

Marooned 


25 

My Danish Sweetheart (ill’d) 

. .8vo 

60 

My Shipmate Louise 


60 

In the Middle AVatch 

12mo 

25 

Little Loo 


20 

On the Fo’k’sle Head 


15 

Voyage to the Cape 

12mo 

25 

Round the Galley Fire 


15 

The Golden Hope 


20 

The Frozen Pirate (illustrated) .4to 

25 

Mrs.Dines’s Jewels(illustrated).8vo 

50 


THOMAS HARDY. 

A Group of Noble Dames (illus- 


trated) 8 VO 75 

The Woodlanders 4to 20 

Fellow- Townsmen 32mo 20 

A Laodicean (illustrated) 4to 20 

Wessex Tales 8vo 30 


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■ Any of the above works sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, 

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